


Deeper than Blood

by Callikoneko83, EeveeGurl



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Artist Daryl Dixon, Blood, Bloodletting, Cancer, Child Abuse, Daryl has PTSD, Daryl really just needs a hug, Dismemberment, F/M, Good Brother Merle, Historical References, Homelessness, House Fires, Insanity, M/M, Mentions of drugs and alcohol, Murder, Orphanage, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Planned Homicide, Restraints, Suicide, Swearing, Tattoos, Theft, Violence, break in, domestic abuse, insane asylum, lots of swearing, mentions of death via IED, rape/noncon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2019-11-16 13:56:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18095642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callikoneko83/pseuds/Callikoneko83, https://archiveofourown.org/users/EeveeGurl/pseuds/EeveeGurl
Summary: Daryl realized early on that he enjoyed art. After losing the two most important people in his life, he discovered a new way to express himself through his art. But at what cost?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a very dark story and possibly delve into a lot of deep psychological issues, not to mention physical violence and emotional trauma. Please take care of yourself and check the tags!!
> 
> On a separate note: This story was originally two different stories, one idea from DarylsBabyGirl and one from Callikoneko83. While chatting and brainstorming, the two ideas sort of joined together, and this story was born. We hope you enjoy!

Daryl was eight years old when he got his first sketchbook. It didn’t have many free pages and was torn and worn. He’d found it on the street walking home from school one day. He’d flipped through it on his way home, finding all sorts of terrible sketches done in crayon. They weren’t even shapes, just lines drawn in no specific order. Snorting in derision at the scribbles, Daryl wondered why someone would waste so much space in the sketchbook like that. Since he was younger he’d always enjoyed drawing and sketching flowers and even a few animals. Not that he’d been good at it. He hadn’t had much practice as it was hard to get even basic, cheap notebook paper to use. A sketchbook like this was expensive and it pissed him off that it was wasted on some spoiled brat with no art skills whatsoever.

Deciding that he wouldn’t let what few pages were left be wasted in such a manner, Daryl rushed home. Locking himself in his room, he dug out a broken stub of pencil from a drawer and started drawing. Shaky lines formed flowers, trees, and animals. The sketches mixed together without wasting even an inch of blank space. He was excited to have such fine paper to draw on. His hand shook with excitement and nerves. He would never have another sketchbook like this. He wouldn’t let it go to waste.

He took his time with the sketchbook. It was something he’d never get a chance to use again, so there was no reason to rush all of the drawings. He’d fill a page a day, and study what he’d drawn, adding in smaller drawings in between, lines that might be a shadow to what he’d already drawn, fixing and improving. He kept the sketchbook hidden under his tiny mattress in his room. He couldn’t let his brother or father see it. His mother wouldn’t care, but if they found it he knew what would happen. He’d be considered a pussy for having such a ‘feminine’ or ‘childish’ talent.

Eventually, he ran out of blank pages. There were spaces on the scribbled pages from the original owner, and he started using those spaces. The more he drew, the better his art looked. Shaky lines smoothed out. Hints of shadow turned to proper shading, curves, and texture to create images that looked more and more realistic. To be honest, he was surprised with himself on how quickly he seemed to pick up newer skills. He wasn’t in an art class in school and he didn’t have any books. Any books he ever brought home, either found or given to him, were quickly taken away to be sold or burned in the tiny fireplace for the colder nights.

He’d had that sketchbook for years. He stole others from kids he met in the park and from arts and crafts stores, along with the more expensive pencils. He was never caught. If there was one thing his brother, Merle, taught him how to do that he found useful, it was how to steal without being caught. As his drawings improved, he expanded what he drew from the beginning plants and animals. He would sit and draw his own hand for hours, attempt to recreate the face of someone he watched on the street. He started to draw scenes that he’d viewed in the forest, on the street, trying to get each detail right, returning, again and again, to study a new part to add into his sketchbook. He didn’t dare take it outside with him, in case someone saw him and word reached his father or Merle.

As he became older, he became bolder. During the winter he would wear heavy coats into the arts and crafts stores and walk out with a small canvas or two along with some paintbrushes and tubes of paint. He would only paint at night. He couldn’t risk someone in the house smelling the acrylic he used to paint with. He hid the drying canvases in his closet, hanging clothes strategically in front of them, so they couldn’t be seen from the door when opened. Eventually, his mother found one of his sketchbooks, and he just about fainted when he came home to find her at the kitchen table flipping through it. She didn’t seem mad. Rather, she had tears in her eyes.

“Ma?” The teenager was wary. He’d never seen the woman who was usually high or drunk show such emotions. It was hard for him to tell what was going through her mind.

“Daryl… You have such a gift. Just like your grandfather.” She spoke quietly and motioned to the chair next to her. “Sit down, baby.” It had been years since she called him that, so he dropped his ragged bookbag on the floor by the door and slowly approached the table.

“My grandfather..?” He didn’t even know he’d had grandparents. He’d been told they were dead when he was younger.

“Your grandfather, Maynard Dixon. He was an artist and sold many paintings and sketches. He loved to paint western landscapes and natives. After he remarried, I never saw him again, but I kept following what he did.” She reached down and pulled a slim book from her lap, filled with old newspaper clippings and images cut and torn from books and magazines. Sliding the book toward her son, she kept flipping through the sketches Daryl had done.

Daryl took the book slowly, hands shaking a bit. He flipped through it, studying the images and reading the newspaper clippings. He had a grandfather who was an artist? He’d thought he was the only one in his whole family who wasn’t the stereotypical redneck trailer trash everyone made him out to be. His grandfather had an interesting style, and he saw images of [mountains](https://www.beverlyamitchell.com/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/b38cf51ec77170b109c5e310157197eb/d/e/desert-mesa-1937_maynard-dixon.jpg), [cowboys on horses](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/2536/4678/products/trail-ranch_maynard-dixon_ed518e14-247e-4228-8360-7ec2d57cb14f_1000x.jpg?v=1550796046), and [Indians](http://www.tfaoi.com/mdixon/mdixon10.jpg). But it was the last one that made his breath catch. The clipping had come from a magazine, detailing a portrait that had been placed in a museum. Hooded figures walked along a barren path, entitled [Shapes of Fear](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1FFxwoKPOUtP4hFhGeHQJKBNMqhV8Vnz-/view?usp=sharing). He felt his heart race at the image. He’d never felt so strongly just from looking at a photo.

He looked up at his mother. “What happened to ‘im?”

“He died, baby. Old age, at 71. Painted right up until the end.” She closed the sketchbook and slid it back across the table at him. Daryl took it slowly, closing the photobook and sliding it across to his mother. She shook her head and slid it back across the table to him. “Keep it, baby.” She had a pained and somewhat determined look on her face.

“Ma? You okay?” He couldn’t remember the last time she’d been sober. He didn’t like the look on her face.

She gave him a small smile and reached across the table to pet his cheek. “I’ll be okay, baby.” She paused for a moment, then spoke up again. Her voice was much softer. “Daryl, I want you to promise me something.” At his hesitant nod, she took a deep breath. “Never let your bastard father stop you from achieving your dreams. You have a true talent here and deserve to be able to use it and be happy. Promise me you’ll be happy, baby.”

Daryl stared at her for a long moment, before nodding hesitantly. Just the thought of going against his father absolutely terrified him down to his bones, but his mother was so serious, so determined. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d seen her like this. Clearing his throat, he nodded again, a bit more firmly. “I promise, Ma.”

His mother nodded happily and gave his cheek a gentle tap. “That’s my good boy.” She offered him a sweet smile and stood up from the table. “Now, go on to your room and draw me something beautiful. I’ll try to scrounge us up some dinner before Will and Merle get home.”

Daryl gathered the book and his sketchbook and stood from the table. He scooped up his backpack and walked through the tiny shack to his room, stepping in and shutting the door. He hid both books back under his bed and pulled out one of the newer sketch pads so he had a fresh page to draw his mother something beautiful like she’d requested. His pencil flew over the page, drawing bold, decisive lines as he started to sketch out a clearing in the forest, hints of birds and deer seen through the trees, a rabbit cautiously hopping out from the undergrowth. A warm feeling filled his chest, the support from his mother had bolstered him more than he’d thought possible.

That night, he and his mother had a wonderful dinner of mac n cheese and fried spam. It was such a poor dinner, but to him, it was the richest he’d ever had. His mother had put on a nice summer dress and had brushed out her hair. She asked him about school and when exactly he had started drawing. He’d never smiled so much in his short 12 years of life. His mother looked beautiful that night. He wanted to remember her like this forever, so after dinner, he brought out his sketchbook and drew her washing the dishes and drinking a small glass of wine. When she caught a glimpse of what he was drawing, she cooed at him, standing behind him to look over his shoulder. Smoothing his hair back, she pressed a kiss to the top of his head before the pleasant night was shattered by the sound of a truck door slamming, followed by raucous laughter. “Go, baby. Go hide it,” she instructed quickly, stepping between him and the door his father and brother would be coming in.

Daryl slammed the sketchbook shut and shot up from the table. He ran quickly to his room just as he heard the front door slam open. He shoved his sketchbook under the bed and stood by his door to listen. He heard his mother greet them and tell them there was dinner in the oven. She told them to sit down and she would fix them a couple of plates. He bit his bottom lip, surprised that Will wasn’t screaming his head off already. He did hear his bastard father make some very sexist and disgusting comments about her, which made his blood boil. He heard Merle make a disgusted ‘ugh’ sound and said he was going to eat in his room. Merle’s bedroom door slammed shut as Daryl peeked out of his own room. The house was eerily silent, so he snuck down the tiny hall to the kitchen. As he got closer, he could hear his father grunting and his mother making soft sobbing sounds along with the telltale sound of their squeaky kitchen table. He swallowed thickly and peeked around the corner.

He wished he hadn’t.

Will had his mother bent over their table, her dress shoved up over her back and her panties pulled down her thighs. He was thrusting into her viciously, and now that he was closer, Daryl could hear the sound of skin slapping skin. Daryl’s eyes widened. His father’s hand was tight over her mouth and nose. Her eyes met with his; she had such an ashamed look on her face. His father was growling things along the lines of ‘why don’t you ever dress up for me like this?’ and ‘who the fuck are you seein that has you dressin up all nice and pretty. I’ll fuckin kill him!’ Daryl swallowed thickly. His mother’s eyes flicked to glance back down the hall, begging him to go back to his room, so he turned and quietly went back down the hall to his room. He sat down on his bed and stared down at his hands. His hands could draw such beautiful art. Why couldn’t they protect his beautiful mother?

A few days later he was outside playing with a few other kids on their shitty block. They all had bikes, but he didn’t so he mostly kept to himself, envisioning what he would draw when he got home. While he was off in his own little world, the other kids noticed smoke in the distance and a firetruck raced by them. The kids’ hollering drew Daryl from his daydream and he looked over his shoulder to see them racing after the fire truck.

He ran after them, but without a bike, he quickly fell behind. When he eventually turned down the correct street, his heart sank in his chest. This was the way home. And all the other kids turned to stare at him as he approached, as he saw the firefighters spraying torrents of water on the already burnt husk that was once his home. The first thought was to his art, the sketchbooks under the mattress and the canvases in the closet that became nothing more than kindling in the fire. The world seemed to fade around the edges and time stood still as he stared at the sight before him. Before he knew it, the fire was extinguished and the firefighters were combing through the wreckage. He’d thought he was lost when he lost the art, but when he saw the firefighters pulling a small, wrapped body from the wreckage, his heart shattered. His mother had been home. Tears welled up and trailed down his cheeks as he flung himself forward, screaming obscenities and demands, only to be held back by strong arms, not permitted to go to the blackened corpse of his mother.

“LET ME GO! LET ME GO, YOU BASTARD! NO! YOU CAN’T TAKE HER! FUCKIN LET ME SEE HER!!” The cop held onto him tightly, telling him to settle down and shut up. His mother’s body was loaded onto a stretcher, then into the back of an ambulance that had pulled up. Everyone was surrounding the tiny street, staring at him and at the blackened structure that was once his house. It was hours before Merle and his father got home, both drunk and/or high. Another cop walked over to talk to Will, but the drunkard didn’t seem to care, though he did start shouting about where the fuck was he supposed to sleep now.

Dary sat in the wet grass, unblinking and unmoving. How could she leave him like this? Just the other day they’d been sitting at their kitchen table talking and laughing. He’d known something was wrong with her but he’d trusted her that she was fine. He’d overheard the firefighters say it was just an accident. The fire had started in the bed she’d been sleeping in. When he heard that, Daryl knew it was no accident. After what he’d witnessed Will doing to her, there was no way she would want to live like that anymore.

Heavy footsteps were the only thing that let him know someone was approaching as he refused to look up at anyone. Ratty leather boots and torn jeans stopped in front of him as Merle crouched down to look at him. “Lil’ brother?” he asked in his raspy voice, reaching out to rest a comforting hand on Daryl’s shoulder. The sight of their house and Daryl, along with the realization of what had happened had seemingly sobered the older brother up quickly. Keeping a careful eye on their Pa, Merle drew Daryl close, sliding an arm around his shoulders in a brief hug. “It’ll be alright, we’ll get through this.”

Daryl tensed for a moment. Usually being touched by his brother meant pain, but when he didn’t feel any punches, pinches or kicks coming, he leaned into the teenaged Dixon’s chest. He let the sobs come, eyes closed tightly and his throat closed up unless he let out the cries and wails that welled up. He clutched Merle’s dirty white tank top tightly in his own tinier fists. Another set of footsteps, footsteps he would never forget no matter what surface they were on, and he tensed, quickly silencing his sobs. Merle’s arm tightened around him.

“Fuckin bitch really left us in a tizzy this time, didn’t she, boys?” Will Dixon growled in a slur. The scent of cigarette smoke and alcohol wafted off of him in waves, making Daryl sick to his stomach. It was bad enough the smell of rotting flesh and wood surrounded them. “It’s a good thing ya got paid today, Merle. Let’s go get ourselves a nice hotel, boys, and order some room service fer dinner. Maybe I’ll even give that bitch Tracy that I met at the bar last night a call. Ya boys don’t mind waitin’ out in the hall while I rail her on the bed do ya?”

Merle glared and stood up. Daryl whimpered at the loss of a comforting arm around him, reaching to grip his brother’s pant leg. “Nah. Yer gonna have to find yer own place to stay fer the night.”

“The fuck was that, boy?” Will growled and reached out to grab the front of his oldest son’s shirt, but he was so drunk the movement was slower than he thought it would be. Merle easily smacked the older man’s hand away and shoved at his chest, knocking the drunkard off balance.

“I said… I’m takin Daryl ‘n we’re gonna start our own life without yer ass!” Merle had his fists clenched at his sides, his posture defensive and eyes wary as Will attempted to get up.

“Y-you two lil shits ain’t goin nowhere without me!” Will pushed himself up on his feet and swayed a bit. “You wouldn’t even have that construction job if it weren’t fer me!” He took a swing at Merle, but the teenager dodged it easily. Will stumbled, slamming into a cop who’d been watching them cautiously. The cop stumbled backward into his cruiser, grunting when they both hit the side of it.

“Alright, Dixon. That’s enough.” The middle-aged cop easily manhandled the drunken man against the cruiser and cuffed his wrists behind his back. “If you’re so damn worried about where you’ll sleep tonight, you can sleep in the jail. It’s really cozy and has a private bathroom.” If Daryl hadn’t been in such shock at the loss of his mother and artwork, he would’ve laughed at the cop’s sarcastic tone. He made a note to catch the name on the cop’s name tag.

Grimes.

He briefly recognized the last name. He’d heard his bastard father curse Sheriff Grimes and mutter about how ‘that fag’ needed to get fucked and die. He didn’t really have enough of a thought process to think anymore on it. He’d lost everything precious to him tonight. He felt Merle’s big hand grab his arm and help him up off the wet grass. His pants were soaked. He hadn’t even realized the grass had gotten soaked from the firehose. He didn’t register Merle walking him to the truck and getting him into the passenger seat or his brother pulling him back out ten minutes later and lead him into a run-down motel room.

“Sorry, baby brother, but until I get enough money saved up to rent us an apartment, we’re gonna have ta stay in this shitty motel room fer a bit. Tomorrow we’ll go down ta the Goodwill thrift store ‘n get us a few sets of clothes.” Merle shut the door behind them. It was warm in the room, so he went to the tiny AC in the corner of the room and tried turning it on. It sputtered and whined, then shut down again. “Uh… I’ll tell the manager ‘bout that tomorrow. For now, why don’t ya go take a shower?” His little brother merely nodded and walked to the tiny bathroom, shutting the door with a click behind him.

Things seemed to get better, after that, for a time. Daryl stayed with Merle who, being over 18, had taken custody of his little brother. Merle worked hard, eventually getting them a crappy little apartment that wasn’t much better than the motel room they’d first stayed in, but it was home. Although, Daryl was still despondent; not only was his mother dead, but all of his art had been destroyed. He hadn’t realized how much the loss of each would affect him. The loss of his mother made him sad, though, at the same time, glad his father couldn’t hurt her anymore. Still, he couldn’t help but think she had abandoned him. With his art gone, Daryl couldn’t bring himself to get new sketchbooks and start over. What right did he have to create something beautiful when he had been unable to help his mother?

He’d found himself wandering in the forest again after a severely depressing day where he couldn’t drag his head from his thoughts. The forest had always been a calming influence on him, a safe space for him to go, and he hoped that it would be like that again. So, he trekked his way to the clearing he spent hours in, camping and surviving, using it as a base when he had to hunt for his own food. When he arrived, he settled in the middle of the clearing and slowly turned in a circle to take in the familiar sight, only to freeze as he spotted the edge of something unnatural. Cautiously approaching the bush, he realized that what he saw was the edge of a black plastic tote box. Pulling it from under the bush, he looked around before getting up and searching the clearing for tracks, but there was nothing recent.

Frowning, Daryl went back to the tote and pried the lid up, a soft gasp escaping his lips as he realized that he was looking at a pile of his sketchbooks on top of his canvases. The book on top was the one his mother had given him about his grandfather. Reaching out with a trembling hand, Daryl picked the book up, only to almost drop it as an envelope slid out of it. His name was written on the front in a familiar cursive script, and he swallowed his tears at the sight, carefully picking it up and opening it.

_Daryl,_

_I’m so sorry, baby. I know you probably feel lost and alone, but I just couldn’t anymore. I couldn’t stay with your father, couldn’t keep being treated like a thing. I want you to know that I love you so much, and always have, always will. And forgive me for searching your room. I couldn’t bear the thought of destroying what you created when I was done. You create such beautiful images. And you paint, too! They are gorgeous, baby, never doubt that. I want you to remember what you promised me. Don’t let your father stop you from reaching your dreams. Be happy. If you are happy, I will be content forever._

_Love always,_

_Mom_

 

The picture he had drawn for his mother, the one of this very clearing, was carefully folded behind the letter. The sketchbook on the top of the pile had been left open, to the image he’d sketched of his mother, the last night he’d seen her so happy. Daryl couldn’t hold it back anymore. He curled into a ball under the tree, letting the cries and sobs shake his small form as he wailed in grief at the loss of his mother. He didn’t know how long he’d been out there but by the time he’d calmed himself down enough to look around, it was nearing nightfall. He put the letter and sketchbooks back in the tote and put the lid on it.

It was a long walk back to the shitty apartment he shared with Merle, especially while carrying the heavy tote with all his art supplies. By the time he got there, it was dark and chilly from the fall weather and he had goosebumps all up and down his arms. He pushed the door to their apartment open. His older brother was passed out on the couch, exhausted from working long hours on the construction site. Daryl glanced around. A pizza was sitting on the oven in the kitchen and there was a single beer on the table that Merle had been drinking. He couldn’t help being paranoid. He didn’t know how Merle would react to seeing the art supplies.

He tiptoed behind the old, beaten up couch they’d found in an alleyway and down the hall to his tiny bedroom. He hid the tote in his closet and opened it, pulling out one of the sketchbooks and the torn package of pencils. He became so lost in his drawing that he didn’t hear Merle get up from the couch and stumble down the hall. His bedroom door opened after a light knock and his head shot up, eyes wide when his brother peeked into the room. Merle blinked at him blearily, dark circles under his eyes and some pizza sauce on his white t-shirt. They stared at each other in silence. If Merle could comprehend that Daryl was drawing, he didn’t seem to care.

“You alive?” Merle’s voice was gruff, but there was a hint of worry to it.

Daryl swallowed thickly and nodded. “Yeah..?”

“Did ya eat, yet?”

“... No.”

His brother grunted. “Make sure ya eat… ‘n don’t stay up all night drawin. Ya got school tomorrow.” He shut the door and stumbled across the hall to his own room to pass out in bed.

The younger Dixon blinked in confusion. He’d thought Merle would’ve taken the sketchbook and burn it on the stove while spouting bullshit about not having a prissy for a little brother. He listened in silence, waiting for Merle to come back in, but when he heard snores coming from across the hall he relaxed. His stomach grumbled, protesting about not having eaten all day, so he got up and cautiously left his room. He found some paper plates and grabbed a couple of slices of the cold pizza. The microwave the apartment provided sucked, but it did a well enough job to heat up the slices of pizza. He grabbed a coke out of the fridge and went back to his room.

The next few months seemed strange to Daryl. He'd never felt so well taken care of before. Merle made sure he had proper clothes, ate when he was supposed to and made sure he wasn't skipping school. He was being the big brother Daryl had always wanted him to be. And when Merle had finally seen one of Daryl's sketches, after coming home earlier than usual from work, he hadn't ripped the book away or called him names as he'd still feared. Instead, his eyebrows had raised up and he leaned over to get a better look. “That's… really good, baby brother,” he rasped in an awed tone, taking a seat next to Daryl to watch. It was such a shock to Merle that someone in their godforsaken family had such wonderful talent.

Daryl’s cheeks flushed a bit and he smiled at his brother nervously. “Thank you.” He refocused on his drawing, biting his bottom lip a bit. He was about to tell Merle about their mother when a sharp knock sounded on the door. His head shot up, eyes wide and fearful that their father could have found them. Merle could tell he was scared, so he told Daryl to go to his room. The younger Dixon didn’t argue. He quickly grabbed his pencils and sketch pads and ran to his room, shutting the door.

Merle got up once Daryl’s bedroom door was safely shut. He went to the front door and peered through the peephole. He blinked in confusion when he saw a man in a green and brown military uniform standing on the porch. He opened the door and nodded politely. “What can I help ya with, sir?”

The soldier didn’t say anything, merely handed him a letter. “Report at 0600 hours on November 5th at the location listed in the letter.” He grunted and turned on toe and walked away.

Merle watched him get in a green camouflage jeep and drive away. He looked down at the letter as he shut the door. “S’alright, Daryl! Ya can come out!” His baby brother peeked out, then slowly stepped out and walked over to him.

“What’s that?” Daryl eyed the letter suspiciously. Nothing good ever came of a letter when it was handed to a Dixon.

“Not sure, yet.” The oldest Dixon gruffed and tore the envelope open. He pulled the letter out and read it. “... I’ve been drafted into the military ta go overseas. Says if I don’t report ta the camp in Virginia I’ll be arrested fer treason.”

Virginia? That was over five hundred miles away from Georgia. Daryl bit his bottom lip. Not to mention his brother would be overseas. Where was he supposed to go? He was still barely 13. He couldn’t very well stay on his own. Was he going to have to go back to their bastard father?

As it turned out, that was exactly what he had to do. He was underage and had to stay with a family member. There was no one else left. Merle had hugged him before they left their apartment, duffel packed and strapped to his bike already. “Look, I know this is jus’ a whole crock of shit, but do whatcha can t’stay sane with him. Don’t let him push ya around. Don’t let him see ya art, but don’t stop. Yer too good ta stop. Soon’s I can, I’ll try ta get ya ta come ta me. Someone in th’ military should listen. Just stay strong, baby brother.”

Sniffling back the tears, Daryl threw himself at his brother, hugging him tight and burying his face into Merle’s shoulder. “Be careful, an’ come back soon.” He pulled away and pulled a folded paper from his pocket, pushing it into Merle’s hands. “Don’t forget ‘bout me.”

Unfolding the paper to see a sketch of the two of them together, fishing, Merle smiled and pulled Daryl close to him once more. “I couldn’t ever forget you, baby brother.” His fingers ruffled through his brother’s hair. Daryl made a sound of protest but smiled as he shoved the older Dixon’s hand away.

The day had ended with Merle driving away from the trailer their father now lived in, after threatening the man and Daryl cowering in a room that had little more than a small ragged mattress on the floor. His father had first laughed that they had come back and then raged and threw everything within arms reach at his youngest son after Merle had left.

It was hell on earth, for Daryl. He was back to hiding everything in his closet and under the mattress. Back to trying to avoid his father’s wrath, fists, and belt. It didn’t work. At least once a week, he found himself in the bathroom, struggling to fight back tears as he attempted to pour alcohol or apply bandages on the wounds he continually gathered on his body, courtesy of his father. He stayed out of the house as much as he could, but it simply wasn’t enough. He missed Merle, missed their apartment, missed being taken care of as a 13-year-old should be.

This went on for years, his only reprieve being letters from Merle, which only came once in a blue moon. He’d quietly read the letters, huffing a soft laugh as his brother would describe the trouble he and his new army buddies caused. He would smile as he read words of encouragement for surviving and continuing his art and would try not to cry when his brother would write about how he loved him. Merle would apologize and say he was still trying to get Daryl free from living with their father.

And then, when he was 16, came ‘That Day’. He had missed the delivery of the missive and came home to his father sitting in his armchair, drinking even more than usual and watching TV. Will glanced up only briefly when his son came home, but Daryl couldn’t help but slow his pace toward his room when he saw that slightly quirked smirk. A smile like that was never good when it came from his father. The older man lifted one arm to point at the open letter on a table, not moving until Daryl had followed the silent command and gone to pick up the paper. “Yer brother’s dead. Yer not gettin’ out anymore.”

Daryl’s heart plummeted in his chest, his eyes growing wide in fear. Quickly, he looked down and read the letter, only a few words jumping out to him. _We regret to inform you…_ and _...Merle Dixon_ , _killed in action by an improvised explosive device…_ and _...our deepest condolences_. The letter crumpled in his hand as Daryl felt his world fill with static, drowning out the laughter from his father at his sudden situation. Mindlessly, he headed to his room, silent and in shock, dropping onto the mattress to stare at the wall. He didn’t move for hours.

When he finally did get up, he pulled a sketchbook from under his mattress and ripped a page out. Determined, he drew a quick, brief doodle and folded the page, tucking it in his pocket as he re-hid his sketchbook. It was dark, and he knew his father would be passed out. So he snuck from his room, slipped money from his father’s wallet and left. He didn’t have a car, so he walked to the nearest tattoo parlor. He knew the artist that worked and lived there thanks to Merle, so the artist didn’t give him any shit about wanting a tattoo even though he was only 16 and didn’t have a guardian present. He gave the man his money and sat in the chair. He didn’t even wince as the artist used the ink gun to draw on his hand using the sketch as a guide.

Overall, the tattoo didn’t take very long since it was a simple outline. The artist covered it with some plastic and told Daryl not to use any scented lotions or soaps, but to keep it clean and rub baby ointment on it once or twice a day. Daryl thanked him and left the parlor. He kept looking down at his first tattoo as he walked home. It was an almost cartoonish looking skull, but to him, it meant so much more. A skull represented death, and those he loved had died. Those who loved his art had died. His thoughts kept spiraling around that idea as he trekked back home in the night. Had it been his fault they had died, because they had loved his art? He shook his head to clear it, but the thoughts remained lurking in the back of his mind.

He hoped his father was still asleep as he walked home, ignoring the few people driving around and the kids playing on the side of the road. He approached his house and peeked into the window. He frowned, seeing the recliner his father usually sat in empty. He heard a crash from inside the house. He flinched from the loud noise but cautiously stepped inside.

Almost as soon as Daryl entered the house, Will came storming out of his son’s bedroom, holding up a couple of sketchbooks and some blank canvases. When he saw Daryl, he glared and held them up, shaking them as he yelled. “Where the fuck is my money, ya lil shit!? And what the fuck are these?” He hollered so loud it made Daryl’s ears ring. “Ya steal from me ta buy this useless crap?”

Daryl swallowed thickly but, remembering Merle’s words, stood his ground and glared back at the old bastard. “I dunno what the fuck yer talkin about, asshole. I didn’t take yer fuckin money.” He walked across the floor and grabbed for the sketchbooks. “I told ya not ta go through my room! Give those ta me!”

Will merely lifted them up higher over his head away from him while his other hand snapped out, gripping his son’s wrist tightly. The pressure on his wrist, at the edge of his new tattoo, made Daryl cry out in pain. “What’s this? Ya used my money ta get this pussy ass thing? Ya can’t even do a skull right! Such badass potential, ‘n ya have ta make it some girly lookin shit!”

Daryl growled at the comment, hatred for his father rising up inside him at the derogatory remarks about his own symbol to remember his mother and brother. He ripped his hand away, really hating that he was shorter than his father. He tried going for the art books again, but Will shoved at his chest. The boy stumbled back, tripping over an old side table. He grunted when his ass hit the unforgiving hardwood floor. Pain and blood blossomed from his calf and knee after the collision with the table. The blood stained his already dirty and torn jeans.

“No fuckin bitch son of mine is gonna be a fuckin sissy artist.” He walked past Daryl and into the tiny kitchen, right to the stove. Daryl immediately knew what his father was going to do, and quickly scrambled up off the floor to save his sketchbooks.

“No, ya bastard! Give ‘em back! Those’re mine!” Daryl clawed at his father’s arm, trying to pull him away from the stove or get a grasp on his books, only for pain to bloom across his mouth as Will turned and backhanded him in response. He stumbled again and fell against the kitchen sink, causing a knife to skitter off the countertop and clatter to the floor by his foot.

The blade gleamed in the dim light of the kitchen, drawing Daryl’s attention. There was nothing left in his life that was more important than his art, now that Merle was gone. There was nothing left for him here, his father was less than nothing. Something in him snapped as he looked up at his father again, hearing the click of the gas stove lighting, and he saw red. Before he could think, he reached out and grasped the knife, rising to his feet once more. The blade was sharp and sank into his father’s shoulder with ease. His father let out a scream of pain and anger and dropped the books and canvases. Daryl yanked the knife out, blood splattering from the knife and the open wound. The warm liquid hit his face on his cheeks and chin, but he didn’t notice.

While Will was still in shock from the attack, the teenager brought the knife across the older man’s neck. The sharp blade sliced across the thin skin of Will’s throat. Blood sprayed down Daryl’s neck and the front of his shirt. He watched as the red liquid soaked his father’s once green and blue flannel shirt and his white tank top. He stepped back, trying to process what he was seeing. The knife slipped from his grip and fell to the floor with a thud. He looked down at his hands in shock, but something on the floor caught his eyes.

His sketchbooks and canvases were in a cluttered pile where Will had dropped them, and the spray of blood had reached them as well. Blood splatters covered the blank white canvas on the top, the thick crimson liquid blooming across the textured surface. Ignoring the gurgles coming from his father’s throat, Daryl knelt beside his things, reaching out to pick up the bloodied canvas. His fingers smeared blood further across it in thin streaks. Tipping his head, Daryl considered the abstract image before he turned to his father’s gasping form, a bright glint in his eye, the beginnings of a smile forming on his lips. “Ya might be worth somethin after all,” he whispered. He reached for the knife again and dribbled a bit more blood from it onto the canvas.

He found himself inspired and couldn’t stop. He quickly raced to get his supplies, but found himself only needing a paintbrush as he spread his newly discovered medium across the canvas. He created careful curves, using the splatters already there within his painting. Hours later, having sat beside his father’s corpse the entire time, he smiled at his [painting](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/1e/d4/89/1ed489d629a17eab7870881127a922bc.jpg). It was better than anything else he’d done yet. It was the first masterpiece of many yet to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maynard Dixon (January 24, 1875 – November 11, 1946) was an American artist whose work focused on the American West. The blood painting is by Maxime Taccardi, an artist who is most notable for his unusual method – creating his pieces using his own blood.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter wound up being far longer than we had ever expected it could be! So we split it up into two, though we’re not quite done with the second part. Unfortunately, there’s only a brief mention of our favorite ninja, but don’t worry, he’ll be in the chapter after next! And again, please make sure to check the tags for any triggers before reading!

Daryl leaned back in his chair, absently licking the juice from the rabbit he’d cooked off of his fingers as he waited for the pictures of his latest painting to upload to the website. Selling his paintings online generated enough money for him to continue living comfortably, though he wasn’t exactly happy with the way he had to sell them. He enjoyed the anonymity the internet gave him but didn’t really like seeing the comments his art gained before it sold. It seemed that no one understood. Comments like “This is wicked cool!” and “So dark! I’d love a copy in my basement!” made him simply scowl and close the website. But the emotional attachment he had to the paintings, that he drew them with, it seemed no one understood.

Except for one particular fan of his who went only by the name of Jesus. This person’s comments often entailed the understanding of the deep emotions Daryl felt as he painted. He was the one that bought most of Daryl’s paintings, sometimes spending well over three hundred dollars bidding against one or two other people. The first time one of Daryl’s paintings went up that high he couldn’t believe his eyes. He’d been just about to put an end to the bidding war, but he truly needed the money to make some repairs on his tiny little cottage deep in the woods. He took the painting into the city and mailed it off to the address given on the website. The money was in his bank within 24 hours.

Now he watched his computer screen as bid wars started almost immediately. He always sent out an email to his subscribers to let them know when he’d be selling a painting. He grinned as the chat room blew up with people arguing and insulting each other. Jesus was mostly silent in the chat room, but he was very active on the bidding. He leaned back in his chair. He usually gave them about thirty minutes to bid on the painting before he closed it out. He pushed his plate of now just sauce away as watched the numbers continue to go up by anywhere from twenty to almost fifty dollars. He debated what he would use this money for. He wasn’t in too terrible need of anything. He supposed he could extend his vegetable garden out, maybe start panting some carrots and potatoes. Or maybe he could build a greenhouse.

The second the clock hit thirty minutes, Daryl stopped the bidding war. Jesus won once again with nearly five hundred dollars spent. He wondered what Jesus did for a living considering he spent anywhere from two hundred to six hundred dollars every month or so. Daryl licked his lips and typed out a message to Jesus to thank him and that he’d mail off the painting in the morning. His subscriber responded with

‘ _No problem! Thanks for the beautiful art. ;) <3_’

The painter grimaced a little at the message. Daryl still wasn’t used to ‘emoticons’.

The next morning he left the cottage bright and early with the painting wrapped in a secure, preservation plastic. He stopped by the post office first to mail it off, then headed to the local Home Depot to pick up some materials for his greenhouse. He passed by Rhee’s Grocery. The young Asian and his girlfriend were unlocking the doors. The young couple waved to him as he drove by. He didn’t understand why. He went in there only for necessities he couldn’t get from the forest. Glenn was so friendly and always chatted his ear off (before the elder Rhee’s ordered him back to work), while his girlfriend, Maggie, sometimes gave him samples of food or drink. She was always telling him he was way too skinny. Still, he gave a shy wave back before refocusing on the road.

A few minutes later he turned into Home Depot and grabbed a cart. He’d made a mental checklist last night of what he might need and went up and down the aisles for them. He’d even looked online about how to build a greenhouse and what materials he would have to buy. There were several people watching him. He knew he was young; he was only 18, after all. He ignored them, however. Daryl didn’t care what they thought of a young man going around grabbing lumber, tin panels, greenhouse plastic panels, and the appropriate nails, screws and ribbing strips. As he looked at how full the large, metal cart was he couldn’t help but think he was very glad he’d fixed up his old man’s pick up truck.

Before he checked out, he grabbed some seeds and pots, along with an ax. The one that had been in the cottage when he moved in was rusted and beyond repair. He walked to check out, giving the young, blonde-haired girl a polite nod. She smiled brightly and asked him how his day was and he muttered out ‘fine’. He spotted an older man at the checkout behind the girl. He recognized him from one of his old man’s buddy circles. The man was staring at Daryl’s purchase, which ended up being well over five hundred dollars. Daryl paid in cash. He never used a card. It may have been two years since his father died, but he was still paranoid the police might find out it was him and track him down.

The girl gave him his change and he pulled the cart out to his truck. He glanced around as he loaded everything into the back. He saw the older man from the registers sitting in an old pick up truck. The paranoid man didn’t like the way the other, older man was looking at him. Rushing to finish getting everything into the back, Daryl pushed the cart into the cart cage. Normally, he’d take the cart back to the store, but he didn’t trust the older man watching him. The artist got into his truck and quickly started it up.

Ready to get home and away from town, Daryl realized he did have to stop and get gas, and once again spotted the man in the old pick up across the street in an empty parking lot. A shiver went up his spine at the realization that he was being followed. The more scared Daryl felt, the more irritated he became.

He put the gas pump back into its slot and got into the driver’s seat. The older man’s pick up was visible in his rearview mirror. He was being followed, back to his home in the forest, where no one else would be nearby. Daryl would have to save himself, take care of this threat on his own. His heart raced and his head felt fuzzy. He loved all the paintings he’d been doing, but they weren’t the same as the blood painting he’d done with his father’s own blood. They weren’t masterpieces. He might have a chance to make another.

Yet, as the man followed him into the forest toward his [cabin](https://www.newsknowhow.org/wp-content/uploads/2018/09/mountain-river-cabins-georgia-good-looking-cabins-in-pine-mountain-ga-gallery-2018-of-mountain-river-cabins-georgia.jpg), he realized that this would be more complicated than what had happened with his father. His mind raced as he watched the other truck follow him onto the forest path in the rearview mirror. The artist accelerated down the path to gain a bit of distance, and parked in front of the building, diving out of his own truck and slipping into his home before the man could get close enough to see him. Quickly grabbing a knife and his bow, Daryl left his cabin out through the backdoor and disappeared into the trees.

Hidden from view, Daryl frowned, tracking the man as he parked and walked to Daryl’s own truck, peering in the windows before crossing to the cabin and doing the same. As the younger man watched, the older tested the doorknob and, finding it unlocked, pushed it open to step inside.

Scowling, the hunter followed him in on silent feet, biting back a snarl as he watched the older man pick up anything that might be valuable. Shifting his hold on his crossbow, he stepped closer, and purposefully stepped on a creaky spot on the floor. The sound made the older man spin around, only to be clocked in the face by the butt of the crossbow. The man let out a groan of pain as he crumpled to the floor, and Daryl stared down at him. He felt quite proud of himself for handling the situation so well. A couple years ago he might have panicked and just run, but he’d stood up for himself and his home.

But what was he to do with this thief? He didn't want to go to the cops, he was still worried that it might come out what he had done to his father. At the thought of what he'd done, Daryl looked over to his only masterpiece, the skulls he'd painted with his father's blood. A soft hum in contemplation rumbled in his throat and he smiled. Yes, he could use this man to make a new masterpiece. He just had to decide how to drain the thief’s blood to get the most use out of it.

The artist shut the door to his cabin and walked back out through the back door to the tiny shed he’d built himself. He couldn’t help whistling a bit as he grabbed a tarp from the corner and the metal pail that lay under it. Picking them up, he carried them across what he considered his back yard and into the house. With some difficulty, he managed to roll the man over, lay the tarp down, and roll him back on top of it. Daryl stood up and realized he should probably tie the man up so he didn’t get away. He went back out to the shed and searched through some boxes and drawers until he found some elastic cord.

When he made it back inside the man was already starting to stir, so Daryl worked quickly to tie his ankles and wrists together. The man started wriggling, eyes shooting open when he realized he couldn’t move his hands and feet. He looked around the cabin and over his shoulder at Daryl. Now that he had a closer look to the younger man he could recognize him.

“You’re Will’s boy. The younger one.”

Daryl hummed slightly in agreement as he reached down to grab the man’s wrists. “I s’pose so. But, he wasn’t much of a father, and I s’pose I wasn’t much of a son.” He looked around and found the pail, dragging it closer.

The man watched Daryl with fearful confusion. “W-What are you doin?”

“Yer gonna help me make another masterpiece. What’s yer name?” Daryl was calm as he worked, situating the pail in the middle of the tarp they were on and holding the man’s wrists directly above it. Satisfied, he reached to his hip where his hunting knife was sheathed as he waited for the older man’s answer.

“I-I’m Joe. I was your daddy’s best friend. Remember? I took you fishin once.” He eyed the hunting knife warily as Daryl drew it. “I-I was sorry to hear about your daddy.” There was a slight tremor in his voice, but Daryl’s trained ears could hear it easily.

Daryl merely shrugged. “I wasn’t.” He looked at Joe in the eyes. “And no, I don’t remember you.” He pressed the knife tight against Joe’s left wrist and sliced from his wrist bones to his mid forearm. Blood sprayed as Joe screamed and struggled to pull away. With a growl, Daryl flipped the knife around, slamming the handle into the other man’s temple, watching with a satisfied smile as the hit turned Joe sluggish and woozy. Pulling the man’s arm’s back over the pail, he watched as the blood streamed down his arm and over his hand to drip into the bucket in a steady red stream.

“W-why…?” Joe managed to get out after stumbling over his words a few times, the pounding in his head and the rapid loss of blood making him slow. His left arm fell limp as Daryl let it go to grab the right. He could barely manage to let out a whimper when the knife sliced down his wrist. More blood sprayed down into the pail.

“Like I said, yer helpin me.” Daryl smiled down at the man before pointing the bloody tip of his knife at the painting on the wall. “See that? The skulls? It’s my first masterpiece. Did it with my old man’s blood after I killed him. Yer gonna help me make ‘nother one.”

Joe looked over at the painting, head moving slowly. He gazed at it, but his vision was blurring, so he couldn’t quite make heads or tails of what he was looking it. When Daryl mentioned Will, he blinked in confusion. “Y-You..? You scrawny little shit... killed Will Dixon?”

“Mm-hmm,” was the contented answer. “Best thing I ever did. An’ he deserved it, too.”

Joe had to admit, if only to himself, that Daryl was right. Will may have been his best friend, but he wasn’t a good friend. He was a right asshole on most days and a goddamned bastard on others. But at this point, he couldn’t really remember much about his friend, or anything really. His vision was going black and he felt cold throughout his body. He wasn’t a religious man, but he still tried to utter a prayer. It came out slurred and unintelligible, and he felt a heavy hand pet his hair once before closing his eyelids, and Joe didn’t have the strength to try to open them back up.

Daryl looked down into the pail. He’d collected nearly three-fourths of it full. That would be plenty for him to work with, and, if he was careful, he might get two paintings out of it. He stood up and walked over to the sink to clean off his hunting knife. The water ran red until the knife was clean. He walked back over to the tarp, drying the knife off with a gentle cloth. The artist sheathed the blade while looking around for any stray drops of blood. He nodded to himself, satisfied. To be honest, he was quite proud of himself. The tarp was a lost cause, blood all over it, but it was contained to it. He’d expected it to be a lot messier. Looking at Joe’s body, Daryl wondered what was next. What was he going to do with the remains? He didn’t care enough about the man to give him a proper burial, but he still had to hide the evidence.

Recalling the recently purchased ax, Daryl went out to his truck to get it. He’d empty the rest of the truck bed out once he’d finished with Joe’s body and cleaned up the cabin. The artist set the ax by the back door, before entering the cabin. He rolled Joe’s body in the tarp after removing the pail and putting it in the fridge to preserve it. Careful not to let any blood drip out, he dragged the body through the back door and a bit further into the forest out of sight. He huffed a bit, sweat dripping down his face and neck. Joe was heavier than he’d expected. Daryl groaned to himself when he realized he’d left the ax at the cabin.

He grabbed a red rag out of his back pocket as he trudged back through the forest to his cabin. Glaring at the ax as if it had disappointed him by not following, he grabbed the handle. He was going to get himself a nice, big glass of iced tea when he finished. Before he left his cabin he remembered to grab a shovel as well, and made a mental note that he would have to buy a new tarp when he went to town next. By the time he got back to Joe’s body, his t-shirt was nearly soaked with sweat. While he was used to the Georgian summers, it was still a bit annoying since the ax kept trying to slip out of his grip as he brought it down on the body’s joints, slicing through the bones, muscle, and tissues.

Once Joe’s head and appendages were disconnected from his torso he traded the ax out for the shovel. Daryl could feel the calluses forming on his palm. They didn’t bother him, they just meant he’d done the work to create his masterpieces. It was quick, but tiring work to dig the hole in the soft earth. Tossing the pieces of Joe’s body into it, Daryl started shoveling dirt on top of them, humming softly to himself under his breath, mind racing ahead to when he would get to work on his masterpieces and wondering what he should paint.

It was as he approached his cabin with ax and shovel over his shoulder that inspiration struck. Every time he came back to his cabin, he couldn’t help but think of his brother, Merle. How he’d taken care of him, even for just that brief time after their mother had died, and how he’d left everything to Daryl after he’d died. Merle’s military pension was the reason he had been able to fix up this abandoned house after he’d first found it, and he still terribly missed the good brother Merle had been at the end. So, the artist would do a painting in honor of his brother.

With a doleful smile at his decision, Daryl put the ax, after cleaning it, and shovel away and quickly unloaded his truck. All of the heavy lifting finally done, he headed inside to take a shower and get that glass of iced tea he’d promised himself. He made himself a light dinner before sitting at his computer to sketch out a drawing for Merle. Leaning back in his seat, he let his mind blank of everything except his brother, and let his pencil move.

It didn’t seem to take long before he had an outline in front of him in his sketchbook. All thoughts of his brother as he’d been when Daryl was growing up, rude, obnoxious, selfish… and then the sudden turn he’d taken after their mother had died in the fire. The brother he’d been that had taken care of Daryl, made sure he had properly fitting clothes, food to eat, that he did his homework and went to bed on time. The brother that Daryl had always hoped he’d be when he was younger. Merle had told Daryl once that when he’d seen his brother sitting there in front of the burnt out shell of their home, he’d realized that he had to step up as a big brother, to put his past self to rest. And it was this memory that was Daryl’s central focus for his new masterpiece.

Daryl didn’t stop until the sketch was done. He stared down at it with a melancholic, yet satisfied smile. It was perfect, and it would look even better in blood on a canvas. Unable to wait any longer, the artist set up the canvas, very carefully pulled the pail from the fridge, and looked down into the thick viscous red liquid. Using his sketch as a guide, he grabbed a brush and dipped it into the pail, smiling as he watched his pencil drawing become reality on the canvas, red blooming across white before eventually fading into the rusty color of dried blood.

When he stepped back from his [painting](http://vincentcastiglia.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/09/The-Sleep1.jpg), he was surprised to realize that his cheeks were wet; he’d been crying the entire time he’d been painting. He didn’t bother to brush them off his cheeks. It’d been two years since he felt anything, and now that he was, it had all been funneled into his painting. Staring at his finished work, fading to a rusty brown as it dried, Daryl frowned. He didn’t want to sell this -- couldn’t sell this. This painting was for his brother, he’d put everything into it. Bringing his thumb to his mouth, he gnawed on his nail in thought, ignoring the coppery taste on his tongue. He decided to get on his computer and look up some websites about art to see what he could do. Several mentioned printing out copies of paintings so artists could keep the originals.

Excited at the thought, he quickly reached into his desk to get out his camera. Daryl took a few pictures of it and connected the camera to his computer so he could upload it. Before he gave it to any site for printing, he checked the accreditation of each site. Reading all the fine print, checking references and doing research, he finally decided on a site that was through an art gallery in New York. Typing out a brief email to them, he attached the photos of his painting, paying with his bank account number. He sat there for about ten minutes before he realized he had researched well past midnight, so there was no way they would be getting back to him until tomorrow.

He’d spent the day killing Joe and the night painting. Daryl sighed, picking up his barely touched dinner from his desk and heating it up in the oven. He sat at his desk, eating while staring at his painting. His eyes traced the lines of the painting, his hand drifting over to trace the skull tattoo on his hand as he did. This painting was important and would be hung in a place of importance as well. It was certainly another masterpiece, even better than his first one.

As he finished his dinner, he looked down into the pail of slowly congealing blood. There was still some left, maybe enough to make another painting if he watered it down? Make it stretch and thin out the coagulation? Considering his options, Daryl cleaned up after himself and took the pail of blood into the kitchen, grabbing a spoon and stirring it, adding little bits of water until it was thin enough to paint with. With a grin, he realized he’d be able to complete a second painting. Stashing the pail into his fridge again, he headed to bed, to dream about what else he would paint.

As it turned out, when he received a response about his prints, the art gallery had not only made the prints he had requested, but also sent back a message requesting to display his prints in their own gallery and website. They also offered to sell his prints in their gift shop and he would get a large cut of the profits. He blinked in shock at the message and looked over the contract that had been sent with the request, reading slowly and carefully. But thankfully, it was fairly cut and dry and written in layman’s terms. Deciding to accept the offer, he attached all the information necessary, but hesitated at his name.

The contract had said he could remain anonymous if he wanted, he just had to give them some name to accredit the painting to. Biting his bottom lip in thought, he realized he’d never expected to have to give a name. He called himself ‘anonymous’ on his website. Glancing around at his paintings, trying to come up with something, his eyes landed on the tattoo on his hand. The skull tattoo had been a memorial to his mother and brother, and it was thanks to them that he’d found a way to be happy and survive on his own. He quickly typed out ‘Skull’ into the blank space his name would go and took another picture, this time a close up of the tattoo on his hand. Uploading the picture, he attached it to the information.

He received the copies of his painting by mail a few days later. He’d posted a picture of the painting on his website with a description that he had ten copies printed off and the first ten people to buy them would get them. They’d all been sold within thirty minutes. The artist had bought bubble wrapped envelopes to put the prints in and mailed them off. It was clear to see that the prints would be highly beneficial, even when he sold the original. As much money as the originals could generate, he could get the same amount or more from a dozen prints sold of the same work.

Eventually, Daryl had built his greenhouse and was almost entirely self sufficient at his little cottage. He only had to go into town once every couple weeks to get things he couldn’t grow, hunt, make himself or to find someone that would allow him to continue painting. After the situation with Joe, the artist rarely used his normal paints. His website had taken off, and his paintings and the prints of them started to sell for increasingly more money. The deal with the art gallery had gotten his work out there and it seemed that he had unintentionally become semi-important in the modern art world.

He considered his paintings to be ‘brilliant’ and certainly better than what he’d done in regular acrylics, but only two paintings were true masterpieces so far. Always hoping that he’d be able to make another, Daryl would search out people that wouldn’t be missed. Mostly, he found the homeless and sometimes he would lure another criminal, but it was enough that he kept painting. However, his next true masterpiece didn’t come until he was 21.

He was at Rhee’s Grocery picking up basic toiletries and perishable foods like milk and bread, when it happened. The artist was in the back of the store by the coolers, having managed to avoid getting sucked into a conversation with Glenn due to the delivery the asian was dealing with. A high-pitched and almost desperate sounding whimper came from the doors into the backroom he was near, followed by the sound of a low chuckle. With a frown, Daryl looked around, seeing no one nearby and he was tempted to ignore the sounds when a muffled sob came from the back. It was a sound he couldn’t ignore, having heard it coming from his mother before when he was younger.

Biting back a growl and falling into hunting mode, the last remaining Dixon quickly pushed open the swinging door to the backroom to see what was going on. The soft sounds of a struggle and a low mocking voice led him to peer behind a stack of boxes, and what he saw made him see red. Maggie, Glenn’s wife, was being held from behind by one man with a firm hand over her mouth while another was in front of her, feeling her up. The sight instantly brought to mind the night he’d seen his mother bent over their kitchen table, held down by his father.

Through the past years of manual labor, hunting, and everything else, Daryl had bulked up, coming a long way from the scrawny teen that had killed his father by sheer chance. And these men were very like the scrawny teen he’d once been. Allowing a snarl to escape from his mouth, he stepped out from behind the boxes and watched as the one holding Maggie widened his eyes. Daryl tapped the other man on the shoulder once, and pulled his arm back, punching him solidly in the face when he turned. He could feel the cartilage of his nose breaking under his fist, an odd warmth filling him at the sight of the blood that spurted from the ruined appendage and splash over his hand.

The other let out a terrified squeak as Daryl turned a wrathful gaze on him and instantly released Maggie, backing away. “I ever catch ya doin’ somethin’ like this ‘gain you’ll be dead, understand?” The hunter growled at the pair as the one he hadn’t hit helped other other to his feet and they both rushed from the back room. Turning to Maggie, his gaze turning worried, he eyed her form, looking for any wounds or bruising. “Ya okay?” he asked in his gravelly voice, only to let out his breath in a rush of surprise as she launched herself at him with a sob and threw her arms around his neck. Awkwardly, he patted her back, only for his eyes to widen further in nervous embarrassment when Glenn came through the swinging doors.

“Daryl?” The asian asked hesitantly as he took in the sight of his wife sobbing on the artist as he attempted to comfort her. Although, the usually solitary man looked as though he were about to jump out of his skin at any moment. “What’s going on? I saw that pair of kids run out of here as though they’d seen a ghost, and one had a bloody nose… what happened?”

Letting out another angry growl at the thought of what had almost happened, Daryl carefully pet the back of Maggie’s head as she let out a shuddering breath at the mention of the two. “They was back here, harassin’ yer wife. I stopped ‘em.”

“Wha-?” Glenn’s eyes widened and he looked at his wife. “Maggie, baby, you okay?” He quickly walked up to them, reaching to pet his wife’s back. She let go of Daryl and turned to latch onto her husband instead. Her husband held her close, rubbing her back and whispering words of comfort to her. When he spotted Daryl turning to walk away, he spoke up. “Daryl!” He waited to make sure the artist had stopped and said, “Thank you… really.”

Daryl merely nodded and headed back into the main store to finish his shopping. He paid for his purchase and carried everything out to his truck, glancing around. He was still raging inside, blood boiling. He needed to paint with fresh blood. Spotting a homeless woman under a tree, he stared at her for a moment. Her messy hair and sunken eyes reminded him of his mother during her worst drunken nights.

She was who he had been looking for.

He couldn’t kidnap her here, though. It would have to be done later tonight under the cover of darkness, with a hope that she was still there. He climbed into his truck and started it. The artist glanced at her one more time to memorize her face before he pulled out of the parking lot. The whole drive home, he started thinking about the best way to kill her while getting the most amount of blood.

Daryl got home and grabbed his bags out of the truck, going about his day in a normal fashion, almost as if he’d never had the thought of killing the innocent homeless woman. He juggled the bags to get his keys out to unlock the door and go into his cabin. Setting his bags down, he put away the perishables like his milk, cheese and jelly. The artist still very much loved peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, so he always stayed stocked up on bread, peanut butter and jelly. With all his groceries taken care of, he went outside to his greenhouse to check on his plants. It was humid inside, so he didn’t stay too long. Satisfied his plants were healthy, he left the green-house.

He went into his shed next, thoughts turning to decide how to kill the homeless woman. Part of the problem with Joe had been the other man’s struggle. So, what if she couldn’t struggle? Would tying her up be better? Perhaps tied in a chair… hands bound behind her? Her wrists could still work, with her arms bound up behind the chair. It would be like a perfect faucet, using the arms and hands to direct right into his bucket. Daryl nodded to himself and set up a chair in the shed. He situated a tarp under the chair and found some rope and the bucket, which he’d cleaned out thoroughly since he didn’t want different bloods to contaminate.

He had everything set up.

Now he just had to wait until nightfall. Ever patient, Daryl spent the time readying his easel and canvas. He ate a quick dinner of peanut butter and jelly, and double checked that everything was ready to harvest his chosen medium. Then, as the sun sank below the horizon, he got back into his truck and headed toward town once more, making sure to keep his lights off as he reached the town’s paved streets. He drove immediately to Rhee’s Grocery and parked on the far side of the parking lot. The artist waited for a moment, glancing around, then got out and slowly crossed the parking lot. The homeless woman was still there, bundled up in a ratty blanket and dirty jeans.

Quietly, he approached her, kneeling down next to her. “Hey, ya need somewhere ta sleep tonight? It’s cold out.” He kept his voice low and gentle, not wanting to startle her.

She stirred and looked at him with such tired eyes. “... Are you serious?” She had a very distrusting look on her face. She’d obviously been teased and beat one too many times by someone pretending to be kind and willing to help her.

With a kind smile, he reached into his bag and pulled out an extra sandwich he’d made at dinner and offered it to her. “Yeah, I’m serious. It isn’t much… but take it.”

She sat up and slowly took it. She sniffed at it as if she thought it might be poisoned. When it seemed to her to smell like a normal sandwich, she scarfed it down. Once she had finished with the sandwich, Daryl offered his hand out to her again. The artist stayed patiently kneeling next to her as she looked at the extended hand. Her eyes darted up to his and back down a few times before tentatively placing her hand in his palm.

Helping her from her position against the tree, he tucked her ragged blanket around her and led her to his truck. He assisted her into the passenger seat and grabbed another blanket he kept in his truck to tuck warmly around her. She smiled at him a bit shyly, whispering a soft word of gratitude. Daryl merely shook his head and shut the door. He walked around the truck to the driver’s seat and got in. The vehicle started with a purr and he pulled out of the parking lot to start heading home.

By the time he reached his house, she had fallen asleep leaning against the passenger window, likely aided by the sleeping pills he’d crushed up and liberally mixed in with the peanut butter. She had reminded him of his mother, and he couldn’t see himself being quite so violent with a woman like he had been with Joe. That she was homeless also made him sympathetic, but grateful that at least her last memory would be someone being kind to her. Opening the door, he leaned in and lifted her into his arms, carrying her to his shed where his chair and tarp were set up.

Tying her down securely to the chair, just in case she woke up anyway, he made sure she couldn’t struggle or get free. He kept the blanket on her so she would continue to feel warm and hopefully stay asleep. Once he was ready, he grabbed a sharp knife and knelt down. As gently as he could, he sliced the knife down one wrist, doing the same with her other. Watching the blood flow freely and perfectly into the bucket, Daryl reached up, stroking the woman’s hair gently, hoping she would pass peacefully. She had a smile on her face, so he knew she was dreaming about something nice.

When the blood stopped flowing and dripping into the bucket, Daryl cut the woman free and lifted her up to lay on the tarp, removing the chair so he could wrap her up. He already had a site ready for her, so he picked her up and carried her out of the shed. The artist walked deep into the forest where he’d dug up a grave for her with a handmade marker. Tenderly, he laid her in and grabbed the shovel he’d left against the tree and started shoveling the dirt from the pile back into the grave.

Once finished, he stood over her grave in silent respect for a long minute before heading back to the cabin. Making sure everything was cleaned up in the shed, he carefully carried the pail of blood inside to set beside his canvas. He’d already done a sketch earlier of what he wanted, and just as before, when he thought of Merle as he painted, this time he thought of his mother. Of how she had taken care of him the best she could, of their last really good day together. He thought of all the ways she tried to escape, through drinking, but couldn’t get away. How she was confined and trapped within that house.

Once more, when he finished his painting, he had tears streaming down his face as he gazed on another masterpiece. A [painting](http://vincentcastiglia.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/09/Feeding1.jpg) dedicated to his mother, which he quickly added a small skull to in the corner as a signature. He would let it dry to the usual rust brown color before taking pictures to send out for making prints. While he waited for the painting to dry, he went into the kitchen and made himself a light dinner. The artist ate slowly, thinking about the woman he’d killed. He wondered what her name was and how she’d wound up living on the streets. His mother could have wound up in her place, had she tried to escape rather than kill herself. He could have been in her place if he hadn’t killed his father.

The thought of his father left a sour taste in his mouth, so he took a long drink of the lemonade he’d made. He gazed at his painting as he stood in his small kitchen. It was probably the best he’d done yet, and he would hang it carefully above the mantle. Smiling at the painting and finally wiping the remnants of tear tracks from his cheeks, Daryl headed to bed, looking forward to the morning and getting the prints made.

In the morning, he fetched his camera to take pictures, but found himself staring at the portrait. He wondered what everyone else would think of it, if anyone else would see the meaning behind what he had painted. Daryl wondered if they would see how the skeletal legs represented her inability to run; how the wheelchair was the way she felt so trapped in life and the baby was what was left of her innocence. Shaking his head with a frown, the artist started taking pictures. He didn’t think most would get it. It would make him money, and he would understand the emotions and meaning and the sheer sentimentality of it, but no one else would. It seemed like no one cared about anything other than how ‘cool’ it looked.

The artist sat at his desk and plugged the USB for the camera into the computer to upload the picture to his website. He typed into the description under the painting that he would get some copies printed off and would have them for sale in a week or two. Within minutes some people already claimed a few prints, but others would wait since the amount for a print was larger. Jesus was one of the first people to claim and pay for a copy to ensure they would get one.

A sudden knock at his front door startled him, making him turn in his seat to stare wide-eyed at the door. No one visited him out here, he hadn’t had another person at this cabin since he found it and fixed it up. Had the police tracked the homeless woman he’d killed last night? Carefully, he walked to the front door and pulled aside the curtain of the window beside it to see who was there. A familiar Korean stood with a large box in his hands. Thoroughly confused, Daryl opened the door slowly. “Glenn?” he asked in a gruff voice, biting at his thumb nail nervously. “What are ya doin’ here?”

Glenn smiled a bit nervously. He’d never been this deep into the forest. The only way he knew that Daryl lived here was because the man was a member of the Rhee’s Grocery club since he shopped there quite often. So, he got discounts and sometimes delivery surface which he used for bulk shopping. “Hey, Daryl. I just wanted to come by and thank you again for helping Maggie the other day. It was very lucky that you were there that day. I don’t think anyone else would’ve done that.” He pointed down at a box by his feet. “I brought you four huge cans of peanut butter and a couple huge jars of jelly as a thank you.”

Blinking in confusion, Daryl looked down at the box, spying the large cans and jars of his favorite sandwich fixings. He shifted his weight awkwardly, and bit on his thumb harder. He stared at the peanut butter eagerly. “Ya didn’t have ta go an’ do that. I’s just doin’ what’s right.”

Glenn shook his head. “It’s the least I could do. If you hadn’t shown up, I don’t know what would have happened. I don’t even wanna think about what would have happened.” He smiled. “Plus, you’re like one of our best friends.”

Daryl’s head jerked up at that comment, staring wide-eyed at Glenn. They considered him a friend? But he only shopped at the store, nodded at them on the street when he saw them. He never really hung out with them, or asked about them, except when Glenn or Maggie managed to suck him into a conversation when he was shopping. Still, his mama had taught him manners, so he knelt down to gather up the box and take it inside. “Th-thanks, Glenn,” he said in a low voice, stuttering over the words. “Um… would ya… like ta come in fer a bit?”

Glenn smiled more. He’d half expected the man to be annoyed with him and send him away. “Yeah, sure!” He waited for Daryl to step aside and stepped in. He looked around. “Wow… so this is the cabin you renovated all on your own?” He stepped around a little bit, looking at some of the paintings the artist had hanging on the walls.

Nodding in response, Daryl headed toward the kitchen to drop off the box, thoroughly glad that he had cleaned everything up from the woman the night before and from his painting. The only thing still out were a few brushes and the finished canvas on the easel that he passed going into the kitchen. “Took a while, but it’s home.”

“This is amazing, man. When you said you were a painter, to be honest, I thought you meant you painted houses.” He laughed a bit, nervously, hoping he didn’t offend the man he considered a friend. “But… these are amazing.” He stopped at the blood painting Daryl had done last night of his mom. “Wow… th-this… this is incredible.” His eyes were wide as he studied the painting. “... And so sad…”

Setting the box on his counter, the artist turned to observe Glenn who was studying his picture. “Ya think it’s sad? Ya can see that?” He walked back to the asian, looking to the picture himself and smiling a small somber smile. “I was thinkin’ of my ma when I painted her,” he admitted.

Glenn looked at him. “I was kinda thinkin’ it was something like that.” He looked back at the painting, eyes tearing up a bit. “... She must’ve been so trapped and depressed.” He couldn’t help but think back to his own grandmother in Asia.

“She weren’t… in a good place. I didn’t see her happy very often. I’m glad she got out, even if it was by killin’ herself.” Daryl swallowed harshly, keeping the tears that threatened at bay. “But it gave me a chance ta have a normal life fer a bit. M’brother, Merle, took care of me.” He motioned to the painting he’d done a few years before that was hanging on the wall.

Glenn looked at the other painting and studied it. “These are incredible, Daryl. And not just for the brush strokes and the image, there’s so much emotion coming from them. Even your other paintings have some emotion in them,” he declared, motioning to other, more colorful paintings on the walls. He turned back to Daryl. “Can I ask what happened to your brother?”

Taking a breath to steady himself, the artist nodded. “He was drafted inta the military when I was 13. Sent overseas ‘ventually. Killed by an IED when I was 16. Got letters from him while he was alive, but I never saw him after he left when drafted.” Daryl kept his eyes down, refusing to meet Glenn’s. Though, he would occasionally look up at the painting, forcing himself to remain calm. No matter how much he wanted to let go and cry at the memories the conversation was bringing up.

Glenn made a soft, comforting sound and walked up to Daryl. “I’m so sorry, man. That must’ve been so rough on you.” He carefully hugged the larger man, patting his back. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you, just let me know. Maggie actually wants me to invite you to dinner tonight.” He let the other man go, stepping back to give him some space. “She makes some awesome spaghetti, man.”

Something in Daryl went cold at the mention of the invitation, freezing him in place and unable to move, speak, or think. He didn’t have friends, no one had ever invited him for dinner in his life. Insecurity filled him and he finally moved with a huffed breath, eyes darting at Glenn with a disbelieving expression as he bit at his thumbnail once more. “I don’t know, man…” he grumbled around his thumb.

Glenn merely smiled and patted his shoulder. “It’s okay, man. We’ll understand if you don’t want to. I should get going, but if you change your mind, give me a call.” He pulled out a pen and a tiny notebook from his pocket and wrote down his number. “Or just pop by the house.” He wrote down his address as well and ripped the paper from the book. “Dinner will be ready about eight.”

Daryl nodded numbly, staring at the paper Glenn was holding out. It took a long moment before he was able to reach out and take it from the man. “Thanks,” he rasped, still looking uncertain about what had just happened. “I’ll think about it.”

Glenn nodded. “No problem, man!” He took one last look at the first painting. “Hey, are you… making prints of this..?”

Looking back to the painting of the woman in the wheelchair, Daryl nodded. “I actually just finished uploading the pictures ta be made. Why?” He looked back at Glenn, tilting his head slightly in curiosity.

Glenn smiled. “I really like it. It kinda reminds me of my grandma back in Korea. She was… trapped herself. She was forced into an arranged marriage and her husband was not the kindest man in the world.”

Daryl blinked again and nodded. He hadn’t been aware that this perpetually happy man had anything like that in his family. Maybe it hadn’t been something that happened directly to him, but in a way, he understood. “I’ll bring ya a copy next time I come ta the store. It’ll be a couple days ‘fore I get ‘em back.”

Glenn smiled and nodded. “Thanks, man. How much do I owe you for it?”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, man. It’s on me.” Shaking his head, Daryl offered a rare smile, even if it was only a quirk of lips.

The grocery owner hugged him again. “Thank you.” He let Daryl go with a pat on his back and gave him a soft goodbye and saw himself out of the cabin.

Daryl didn’t go to their house for dinner, but he did stop to talk to the couple more often when he went to the store. Glenn was delighted with his print, and Maggie seemed impressed with it as well. They kept him up to date with things that happened in the town, including how the police had been investigating a cart belonging to a local homeless woman. The day Glenn had visited Daryl’s cabin, he’d been delayed because he’d been stopped for questioning, since his store was right next to where she’d last been seen.

“It was so weird, man. No one even noticed the lady was gone until the stuff had been there for several days.” He sat down and accepted the water Daryl handed him. “The cops were asking all kinds of weird questions and came with a warrant to look at the camera footage in the front of the store.”

Daryl shifted awkwardly, trying to hide his nervousness. “What’d they find? They come up with any answers?” Really, he just wanted to know if he needed to leave town. He didn’t want to, he liked where he was now, but if it kept him free to keep painting, he’d do whatever he had to.

“Not much really. I saw the footage, too. There was a truck that pulled in around 1 AM a few nights ago, but they couldn’t read the license plate and a man walked across the parking lot, but they couldn’t see his face.” Glenn sipped on the water and licked his lips. “They checked for foot prints and stuff, but couldn’t find any since it hasn’t rained in weeks.”

Daryl felt himself relaxing as Glenn spoke. “Do they think he took her? Maybe she left on her own?” If nothing could be pointed to him as the culprit, he would simply act dumb, and try to get whatever info he could so he could avoid such issues in the future. He hadn’t even thought about checking for cameras, and that could have ended everything for him. He’d have to be more careful next time.

“He walked her to his truck and drove off. So, they’re pretty sure whoever he was took her.” Glenn shrugged. “Maybe he gave her a nice home.” Daryl nodded an agreement and took a drink of his own water. The korean had given him a lot to think about and to pay attention to over the coming years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of Daryl’s paintings in this chapter are credited to Vincent Castiglia, a man who does blood paintings with his own blood. The first is called ‘The Sleep’ and the second is called ‘Feeding’. His work is amazing, so please check it out here: http://vincentcastiglia.com/works/
> 
> Please leave kudos and comments! Both of us love to hear what you think of this story so far!


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here is the rest of what was originally going to be chapter 1, until we realized that it was over 30 pages long. More about Daryl’s background and what he’s been doing. But we promise we’ll see our long haired scout in the next chapter! Again, please make sure to double check all the tags for trigger issues! We really try to keep them updated properly, and let us know if you feel we’ve missed one!

With the insight he had gained from Glenn, Daryl was able to successfully continue his murders for the next nine years. He made certain to take people who wouldn’t be missed, to avoid people being curious. He watched for any cameras that might be able to catch him, and if he had to be in range, he made sure to wear a dark hoodie to cover himself. He made sure not to leave tracks, which was easy enough, given how well he could follow them himself. The blood paintings continued, and the prints and originals became more and more profitable for him.

The turning point came when he had been loading his truck up with goods from Rhee’s Grocery one evening and heard a sharp crack of skin meeting skin and a muffled sob. Looking around, he spied a large, overweight man with a buzz cut hitting a small, petite, silver-haired woman.

“What the fuck is this, bitch? You spendin my hard earned money on shit like this?” The man shoved the bra in the woman’s face. She kept her head low, sobbing softly with her tiny hand on her cheek which was now red and starting to bruise. “You don’t fuckin need this shit! You’ve got one on ‘n ‘another at home! Yer fuckin lucky I let ya even wear this shit!”

Daryl clenched his fist around the bag in his hand. Everyone was ignoring what was happening to the poor woman. He could clearly see a little girl, no older than 10, sitting in the back of the truck they stood by. She was cowering a bit herself. The sight of them reminded him too much of his own childhood. His bastard father yelling at his mother for one thing or another and himself and Merle cowering in the back of the truck or behind their mother. He put the last of his purchases in the back and walked around to the driver’s side. He looked back over at them.

“Get yer thiefin’ ass back in the damn truck! Yer gonna pay me back for this!” He shoved her into the side of the truck, her head banging on the metal. She cried out in pain, but quickly yanked the truck door open and climbed inside. The large man tossed the bra into the grassy area by the parking lot and got into the truck.

Daryl memorized the license plate on the truck. Aside from his father and Joe, he’d been killing only homeless. This would be the first time he killed someone that would be missed. He got into his own truck and waited for them to pull out of the parking lot. He took his time, but he followed them away from the grocery store and down the street for a couple miles before turning onto a residential block. They took another turn and soon came into a more run down residential street and pulled into a house with a broken screen door and window. There were some car parts and broken toys in the yard and almost half the shingles on the roof were missing.

Daryl parked a few houses away and across the street. He watched the family get out and the man walk in while the woman and little girl carried the bags in. There weren’t many bags, so they only had to make one trip. The man’s loud, booming voice could be heard yelling at them from inside the house to get the groceries put up, the house cleaned and dinner started. It went quiet for a while. The artist settled in to wait for it to get late. Once it was close to ten, a few lights in the house went out except for one. Daryl looked around the neighborhood, but there was still too many lights on in houses, so he would have to wait a little longer.

Another couple of hours later and most of the houses on the block had their lights off. The artist climbed out of the truck and walked across the street to the house. Peeking in a few windows, he came to the last one and saw the little girl sleeping on a mattress on the floor. He went around back and tried the door knob. It was locked, but the door was so old he could easily jigger it open. Daryl looked around the yard, eyes darting around trying to find some kind of tool. Luckily it also had a bunch of car parts and metal pieces. He walked around for a moment until he found a metal pipe that was pinched closed at the end. The artist walked back up to the door and carefully nudged the pinched end between the frame and the door lock. With a careful yank of the pipe, the door broke open.

Keeping a hold of the pipe in case he needed to defend himself, Daryl stepped in quietly, glancing around the tiny kitchen. There were two doors, one of which went into the little girl’s room and another. He went to the other door and carefully peeked inside. A old TV with antenna on top of it was on. An infomercial played on a grainy screen, white static almost drowning out Billy Mays’ voice. On an old recliner, he saw the top of the man’s buzzed head. He couldn’t see the petite woman around. The artist moved silently into the room, setting the pipe down against the wall so he would have both hands free. Drowning out the sound of the TV and standing behind the recliner, Daryl reached one hand under the man’s chin and the other on one side of his head.

He took a deep breath, tensing his biceps. As soon as he gripped the man’s head tightly, he stirred. Only one syllable left his mouth before Daryl twisted his head. There was an audible crack as his cervical spine was broken. The man died instantly, his body going limp in the recliner. The artist released the breath he’d been holding. He felt better, like he’d killed his own father again. A door on the left wall creaked open and the woman stepped out. Her eyes widened, a startled sound breaking the seemingly silence of the room. The sound of the TV filled Daryl’s ears again as his head shot in the direction of the woman’s voice. They stared at each other for a moment. He expected her to run for the phone on the kitchen wall, but instead she slowly approached him. Daryl wasn’t sure what to say to her. He’d just killed her husband, but now she and her daughter were safe. The artist wasn’t sure she would feel that way, however.

“... Thank you…” Her voice was so quiet, Daryl almost didn’t hear her. “... What’s your name?” He hesitated at first. This could all be a ruse, a trap. “It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone. You-you saved my life, my daughter’s life. I need to know the name of our savior.”

Daryl sniffled a bit and looked down. He still hesitated, but when he looked into her eyes, they were so soft and grateful and filled with tears. “... Daryl. Daryl Dixon.”

“Dixon… did we go to school together?” She leaned forward a bit more to get a better look at his face, but he stepped back. The petite woman understood his boundaries and stepped back herself.

“I’ll take the body… so… don’t worry about it. I’ll bury it in the woods.” He glanced around the house. “I just… need a tarp ‘r a sheet.” The woman quickly went to fetch a blanket, coming back after a moment. She offered it over to him while keeping as much distance as she could. Taking the blanket with a nod of thanks, he quickly spread it out and lifted the body onto it, wrapping it up so he could drag it out to his truck.

The man was very heavy. The petite woman held the door open for him while he dragged the body along the sidewalk, across the street and to his truck. Daryl struggled getting him onto the bed of his truck, and by the time he was done, he was already sweating. He slammed the tailgate shut and walked to the driver’s seat and got in. The woman watched him from her porch, holding her worn, pink nightgown around her body. She gave him a small wave as he drove past the house.

Arriving back at his cabin, Daryl did as he usually did, setting up his tarp and bucket, bloodletting the corpse. He took it to the woods, chopped it into pieces and buried it, cleaning up and taking the blood into the house to paint. The memory of the man hitting the petite woman ran through his head again, bringing up a rage in his heart again, remembering his own childhood. Before he realized, the artist was grabbing a brush and almost attacking a blank canvas with the tool to get the image in his mind out for the world to see. His own anger and despair at the life he’d had, his own lament of not being able to control anything until he was older. By the time he was done, his [painting](http://vincentcastiglia.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/09/Lament11.jpg) stared back at him, fresh tear tracks running down his cheeks.

It was a painting of himself.

 

The next morning, the woman called the police and they came to see her not fifteen minutes later. She let them in and offered to get them coffee or lemonade. They rejected the offer kindly and they all sat around the tiny kitchen table. She forced herself to cry, though all she felt was relief and freedom.

“My name is Rick Grimes, this is my partner, Tara Chambler. Can you tell us your name, Ma’am?” Rick was a sturdy man, very clean cut and preferred to follow the rules. His partner was quite like him, which made it easier for them to get along.

“Carol Peletier.” Carol sniffled, reaching for another tissue to wipe her cheeks. She watched as Officer Chambler pulled out a little black book and a pen to take some notes.

“Alright, Mrs. Peletier. Can you tell us what happened last night?” Rick kept his voice low and soothing. He could roar when he wanted, but for people like Carol, who was quite obviously a victim of abuse judging by the bruise on her cheek and the handprints on her wrists, they required a far more careful approach. Any little thing could scare them off.

Carol nodded and folded her hands on the table around the tissue. “Um… well, we got home around 6 last night from Rhee’s Grocery. Sophia, my daughter, and I put the groceries away. While I cooked dinner, she cleaned up around the house and my husband, Ed, sat in the living room watching TV and drinking beer.”

Tara glanced up at her. “Does your husband drink a lot?” A drunk could easily wander off and get lost somewhere, get caught up in the wrong crowd, or even walk out into the street and get hit by a car.

“Yes, at least seven beers from 5pm until he falls asleep. Ed was never one to wander off, though. Beer always puts him to sleep.” She sniffed and took a sip of the coffee she’d made for herself before they arrived. “After dinner, he went into the living room, drank his beer and watched his infomercials like every night. I went to bed at nine, and he was still in the living room. When I woke up this morning, he wasn’t in the house and the truck was still in the driveway.”

Rick nodded and reached to pat her hand soothingly. “Just a few more questions, okay?” She nodded, smiling appreciatively at the gentle touch. “Does Ed walk around a lot? Could he have gotten up and walked around the neighborhood to ease a hangover?”

Carol shook her head with a scoff of derision. “Ed never walks anywhere, and he never leaves the house before I’ve made him breakfast.”

The cop nodded and looked at Tara. She was still a bit of a newbie, so he let her ask questions most of the time. Tara nodded to him gratefully. “Can you give us a description of your husband? Or a photo maybe?”

“We never take photos. Ed was a bit superstitious, so he believed cameras stole your souls.” Rick couldn’t help but snort and Carol started giggling almost uncontrollably. Tara glanced over at her partner, letting out a small snicker herself. The petite woman sobered up and used the tissue to wipe her cheeks again. “Um- well, he’s about 6’2”, in his mid forties with a buzz cut of dark brown hair and usually scruffy cheeks. He hated shaving. He has hazel eyes and a beer belly. Last night he was wearing a white tank top under a brown uniform shirt, he works at an auto shop, and dirty blue jeans torn in the left knee. He’s tanned on his face, neck, shoulders and arms, but the rest of him is pale.”

Tara nodded, writing everything down as fast as she could. “Any tattoos or scars to help identify him? Or even piercings?”

Carol shook her head. “He was quite religious, so tattoos were a big no no. He does have a scar on his right thigh from where a dog bit him when he was a teenager. He did have his ears pierced as a teenager, but he hasn’t worn any earrings since he was twenty.”

Rick was impressed with Tara. She was asking all the right questions while not being too invasive. She would make a great detective one day. “Is there anything else you can tell us about your husband or last night?”

She took a moment to think it over, but shook her head. “No, nothing comes to mind.” Daryl crossed her mind, but she wasn’t going to tell them about him. He was her savior, she would protect him anyway she could.

The older cop looked at his partner. “Chambler, you got any other questions?”

Officer Chambler looked over her notes, mumbling under her breath as she read them to herself. She looked up and shook her head. “No… I think we’re good, Officer Grimes.”

They both stood up and Carol walked them to the door, thanking them for coming and listening. Rick gave her his card and told her to call if she remembered anything else she could tell them and told her they would be in touch in. She thanked him and shut the door. Rick and Tara walked down to their cruiser and stopped beside it.

“What do you think, Chambler?” Rick crossed his arms over his chest, looking around the neighborhood and at the grass and sidewalk.

“Well, I think we should check the database, see if anything comes up about Ed Peletier. The name sounds familiar to me.”

Rick nodded. “Alright, go ahead and do that.” He looked up and down the neighborhood. This was one they came to quite often. A lot of meth labs and domestic violence calls came from this neighborhood.

The other officer nodded and opened the cruiser door and settled into the seat. With one foot hanging out, she got into the computer and typed his name into the database. While she waited for any records to pop up, Rick walked around without straying too far. He couldn’t find any blood on the sidewalk or in the street. Tara called out to him so he walked back over to the cruiser and leaned on hand on the top while he looked inside.

“What d’you got?”

“Ed Peletier has been arrested on many occasions for drunk and disorderly, aggravated assault, domestic disturbance, driving under the influence, driving without a license… the list goes on. Every time his wife or a friend would bail him out.” Tara looked up at him to try to gauge her partner’s thoughts on their case.

“Jesus Christ… so I bet someone must’ve wanted him dead. Maybe he owed a friend money, or someone he assaulted wanted revenge.” Rick stood straight and ran his fingers through his hair. This could be open and shut or more extensive than they originally thought.

Tara nodded in agreement. “That’s what I was thinking. He obviously wasn’t very likable. Did you see the bruises on Mrs. Peletier?” She hated domestic violence cases. Most of the time, they ended up with someone dead, usually the victim.

Rick nodded. “Yeah. Can’t do anything about that, yet. If he’s still alive we could try to convince her to press charges and divorce him so we can put a restraining order on him. For now, we have to find him.”

Tara stepped out of the cruiser and looked up and down the street. “So, where should we start?” She shut the door after making sure she had the keys on her belt.

“I didn’t see any blood on the concrete or asphalt. So, let’s go door to door. We need some better leads.” He made sure he had his badge visible and gun at his hip. Tara did the same and they locked the cruiser.

They spent the next ten minutes going house to house down the side of the street the Peletier’s house was, then went to talk to the neighbor’s across the street. Three houses down and across the street, Rick spotted a camera on the corner of the house. He pointed it out to Tara silently and she nodded in agreement. She knocked on the door and a moment later a bald, sickly looking woman opened the door, holding a mask over her face.

“Can I help you?”

“Sorry to disturb you, ma’am. We’re investigating a disturbance at one of the houses across the street and were wondering if you heard or saw anything strange last night.” They kept a respectable distance away as this woman was obviously quite sick.

“No, I’m sorry. I’m afraid not. I just had a chemo treatment a few days ago, so I’m in and out of sleep most of the day and night when I’m not puking my guts out.” She paused glancing outside up and down the street. “Let me guess, it was the Peletier house?”

Rick shook his head. “I can neither confirm nor deny that.” The woman shrugged a bit, obviously knowing it was true. “I saw you have a camera on your house. Do you mind if we come in and take a look?”

“I don’t mind, but you’ll have to wear a mask and gloves. They’re in that cooler by the door.” She pointed to the cooler in question and stepped back from the door.

Rick and Tara both put on the mask and gloves and stepped into the house. “Thank you very much, ma’am. Can we get your name?” Rick was truly surprised the woman let them in. Not because she was sick, but because just about everyone else on the block had either shut the door in their faces or told them to ‘fuck off’ then shut the door in their faces.

“Lucille… and it’s no problem. Carol is a very sweet woman. She comes over often to take care of me after my cancer treatment and brings me food or goes to pick up my medication.” She led them to the back of the house, which was very clean and smelled of bleach, and into a room. The room had a desk with a few monitors on it. Baseball paraphernalia lined the walls.

“Your husband a baseball fan?” Rick asked, looking at the walls with interest.

“Yes. He’s a baseball coach at the local high school. Not the best money or insurance, but it does the trick well enough.” She sat at the desk and turned the monitor on. “About how far back do you want to go?”

Rick came a bit closer, but still kept his distance. “Anytime after ten pm last night.” Tara came to stand on the other side of Lucille’s chair, pulling out her black book and pen to take any notes.

Lucille used the mouse to pull up footage from last night and rewinding it to ten pm. “Weird… I don’t recognize that truck outside the house.”

“You don’t?” When Lucille shook her head, Rick nodded to Tara. “Can you zoom in on it?” While Lucille zoomed the image in as best she could, Rick read out the color, make and model of the truck. “Looks like a blue and grey Ford F-250, year possibly between 1970 and 1975.”

Tara nodded, writing it all down, including the license plate number when Rick read it out to her. “We can definitely get the owner of the truck off this.” She looked back at the screen as Lucille slowly fast forwarded until the owner of the truck got out. She paused it again and zoomed in on the man’s face.

“Looks like brown hair… can’t get an eye color… wearing a blue and black flannel shirt and what seems to be black jeans.” Rick rubbed his chin. “I kinda recognize him, think I’ve seen him at Rhee’s Grocery before.” They let the footage play until about forty five minutes later, they see the man dragging a very heavy body to the truck and struggle to put it into the truck bed. “Any chance we could get a copy of this?”

Lucille nodded. “I don’t know how to do it, though. My husband should be home soon if you don’t mind waiting.” She looked over her shoulder at the man. “By the way, you have very pretty eyes.”

Rick blushed and chuckled. He was used to being flirted with by women, but it still embarrassed him sometimes. “Well, thank you. We can wait. We’ve gotta go look up this license plate.”

Tara put her book back in her back pocket. “I’ll go pull the cruiser in front of the house.” She winked at Rick and patted his back and showed herself out of the house.

Lucille rewinded the recording back to when the truck first pulled up in front of her house. She stood up and carefully made her way out of the room and to the kitchen. Rick followed her, watching carefully in case she fell. “Would you like some coffee?”

“Sure, I could use some coffee. Why don’t you sit down, though? You probably shouldn’t be moving so much.” He didn’t want the sickly woman to do more than was necessary. She was already being an amazing help to their case.

Lucille merely chuckled. “You sound like my husband.” She did feel tired, however, so she sat down at the kitchen table and told him where the coffee grounds were.

Tara came back in as the coffee was brewing. “Got a name on that license plate.” She walked over to Rick and showed him the name she’d wrote in her book.

Rick read over the name and the small list of minor offenses that came with it. “Alright. Did you get an address?”

“No. Only a PO box and an old address for a house that burned down 18 years ago. His brother was killed overseas, and then he just disappeared. I’ve seen him a few times myself at Rhee’s Grocery, but other than that…” She shrugged a bit and trailed off.

Rick sighed and nodded. “Alright, we’ll stake out some officers at the post office and at Rhee’s Grocery. Hopefully one of them will spot him and bring him in.” His partner nodded in agreement and exclaimed happily when she saw coffee and a bag of donuts that Lucille had told Rick to get down from the cupboard. They both dressed their coffee and sat at the table with Lucille, chatting amicably.

Lucille’s husband came rushing through the door a while later, in a panic. “LUCILLE! BABY?! YOU OKAY!?” He ran into the kitchen, bags haphazard in his hands with a tear in one that a can seemed to be trying to fall out of. “THERE’S A FUCKIN’ COP CAR OUT FRONT!”

“Would you quit your shouting, Negan!” Lucille huffed from where she was sipping on a protein shake Rick had gotten out of the fridge for her. “Jesus, you’d think the damn world was falling apart with you running around screaming.”

Coming to a stop and looking at the cops sitting with his wife around the kitchen table, Negan relaxed some, before tensing again. “So what the fuck do you pigs want, then? Can’t you see she’s fucking sick? Don’t need it being made worse!” he demanded, setting the bags down on the counter.

Lucille stood up and walked over to him, smacking his shoulder. “Quit your damn swearing! These two have been nothing but kind to me! They’re here asking about Carol!”

Negan didn’t even flinch from his slap, but relaxed once again at her words. “Sorry, baby, I can’t fucking help it. But you know you love me and my mouth,” he charmed, waggling his eyebrows with a grin. He rested his hands on her arms and pulled her into an embrace before turning to the pair of officers at his kitchen table, sighing slightly. “What the fucking hell did Ed do to Carol now?”

His wife huffed, mumbling about only when his mouth is shut. “Seems someone killed Ed. Our camera out front caught someone dragging a body to a truck parked in front.”

Rick stood up. “We’re sorry for startling you. Your wife has been cooperative and very hospitable. We just need a copy of the footage from last night and we’ll leave ya’ll in peace.”

“Your coffee is really good. I got a to go cup in the cruiser… if you don’t mind me taking some more.” Tara licked her lips and took another sip of her coffee.

“No shit? I got that camera to help make sure the hellions in the neighborhood didn’t bother Lucille, but hot DAMN I never thought it’d come in fucking handy like this! By all means, I can make a copy for ya, and take as much coffee as ya want.” Negan almost looked like a kid in a candy store at the thought of having a recording of a murder on his camera. Releasing Lucille, he motioned for them to wait in the kitchen while he headed into the back room to make the needed tape.

Lucille huffed. She’d forgive him this time for swearing in front of the nice cops since it wasn’t aggressive. “I already got the beginning of the footage paused!” She coughed a bit and Rick helped her back to her seat. “I promise he’s not usually so rude. He’s actually very sweet as long as you stay on his good side. He’s just very protective of me.”

Rick shook his head. “It’s no problem, ma’am. I’m used to it by now. I’ve been a cop for ten years.” He chuckled as Tara got up and hurried outside to get her togo cup out of the cruiser. She came back in and rinsed it out before filling it with coffee and a bit of sugar. “We do thank you very much for your help. I’m not sure how we would’ve gotten any leads without you.”

Tara finished her mug of coffee and cleaned out the cup. “Pretty much everyone on this street hates cops, so no one would even talk to us except to tell us to ‘f off’.” She cleaned out Rick’s mug as well after making sure he was done with his.

“Well, this neighborhood used to be very nice. It’s why Negan and I bought this place. Then, the wrong kind of people started moving in and the street slowly turned to trash. We’d talked about selling this place and moving somewhere nicer, but then I got sick and all our money started going to the medical bills.”

“And that’s when we got the damn camera, because you can’t fucking trust anyone on this shitty street anymore,” Negan said as he came back out of the other room, holding a copy of the tape in his hand. “Wanted to make sure Lucille was safe from all the fucking idiots we live around when I have to be at work.” He offered the copy out to Rick, stopping just behind his wife and putting an arm around her shoulders.

Rick took the disc gratefully. “Thank you very much. We appreciate the cooperation and support.”

“And for the coffee!” Tara grinned, holding up her togo cup. They both shook Negan’s hand and the coach led them to the door. He showed them out and watched them get into their cruiser before shutting the door and locking it.

Rick drove them back to the precinct and they went to their chief to show him the footage they’d gotten as well as all the information they’d got from Carol and the database. He approved them using two cops to stake out the post office and Rhee’s Grocery. They spent the rest of their shift deciding which cops to use and setting up a meeting to give them a rundown of the case.

It was three days later that a grey and blue truck pulled up to the post office, a man in a sleeveless flannel with a familiar face getting out of it. He was holding a dozen manilla envelopes in his arm. Rick’s eyes zoned in on him immediately. He picked up his walkie and reported that he spotted a man similar in appearance to their suspect and for others to stand by. There was no telling what could be in those folders. The man disappeared into the post office, only to come back out mere minutes later empty handed. Before he had a chance to reach his truck, a voice calling his name caught his attention. He tensed at the sight of a cop walking up to him. His eyes looked at the cop’s name tag.

Grimes.

“Daryl Dixon, you’re under arrest for the suspected murder of Ed Peletier.” Rick grabbed Daryl’s right wrist, expecting the man to struggle. To his surprise, Daryl cooperated and turned to face his truck and let the cop handcuff him while reciting his Miranda Rights to him.

Daryl knew what happened when someone fought against an arrest. Merle and his father had done it one too many times, so he cooperated and let the cop lead him to the cruiser. A few people stopped to watch, even Glenn who was helping a new mother put her groceries in the back of her car across the street. Glenn stopped and stared wide eyed. Daryl lowered his face. He couldn’t stand to see the shock and possibly disappointment in his only friend’s face. The artist knew that killing Ed the way he had was a mistake, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret even a second of it. Instead, he moved with the cop, cooperating with every instruction he was given, while turning the name on his badge over in his head. It wasn’t a common name, and he remembered it clearly from a night filled with fire and fear and despair.

As he was guided into the back of the police cruiser, he leaned back, waiting for the man to get in the front. “Grimes. I know that name. Was yer daddy a cop too?” he asked in a quietly gruff tone.

Rick got in and glanced at Daryl in the rearview mirror. “... Yeah. How’d you know?” He turned in his seat a bit to look at Daryl directly. “... Did you know him?”

Daryl shook his head, dropping his eyes down to gaze at his lap. “Nah. Just ‘member the name. Was there when our house burnt down. Took Pa ta the jail ta sleep off the drink fer the night. Gave me and my brother a chance ta escape fer a few months. I’ll always ‘ppreciate that.”

The cop stared at him for a moment. “... I remember you… or, at least your old man. Dad used to complain about him a lot about how he got away with so much. He wanted t’help your family, but unless your mom wanted to press charges, there was nothin he could do.”

Offering a one shouldered shrug, Daryl shook his head. “That one night was ‘nough. But shouldn’t we be headin’ ta the jail now, Officer?”

Rick nodded after a moment. He turned back to the front and started up the car. He reported through his walkie that he was bringing the suspect in. Someone replied with ‘10-4.’ He glanced at Daryl one last time and pulled out of the parking lot and into the street, heading toward the precinct. It didn’t take long for him to pull into the precinct and park the car. The officer got out and opened Daryl’s door to help him out.

Daryl continued his cooperation with the cops, understanding that he had been caught and probably wouldn’t get out of this. He wasn’t sure how he had been caught, however, until he was in an interrogation room with Officer Grimes. Rick settled across the table from him with a laptop and a manilla folder. He opened the folder and pulled out a picture and set it on the table in front of Daryl. It was a hand drawn picture of the man he’d killed recently.

“Mr. Dixon, do you know this man?”

He hadn’t known him, other than having seen him hitting his wife and killing him, but he didn’t know how much the officer knew, so he kept to the truth as best as he could. “I seen him around. Seen most of the town in Rhee’s Grocery at some point or ‘nother.”

Rick nodded and took the picture back. “So, you don’t know his name?”

Daryl shook his head, clarifying with a simple, “No.” The woman hadn’t told him any names, just that he’d told her his. Perhaps that had been a mistake.

Rick nodded again and pulled another picture out of the file. It was a still photo of his truck in front of Negan’s house. “Is this your truck?”

The picture was clear enough that he could read his own license plate, so it was useless trying to deny it. And with the angle of the image, he was fairly certain he knew which house the picture had come from, and it wasn’t the woman’s own. So, with a soft huff of breath that almost mimicked a sigh, Daryl nodded with a resigned, “Yes.”

Rick took the picture and replaced it with a still photo of Daryl standing next to the truck. “Is this you?”

“Ya already know it is. Get ta the point already.” The artist rolled his eyes in annoyance at how drawn out this was becoming. Denying things at this point was useless. He knew what happened next, and if the image of him and his truck were so clear, there was no doubt that there would be an image of him hauling the wrapped body into his truck.

“Very well, Mr. Dixon.” The officer took the picture again and opened the laptop. He pressed play on the footage that was pulled up which showed Daryl dragging a body to the truck. He hit pause when Daryl was struggling to put the body in the back. “Mr. Dixon, did you murder Ed Peletier?”

“Was that his name?” Daryl asked, honestly curious for a moment. “Kind of hard ta deny what’s clear there on yer video, isn’t it? I s’pose I could claim I didn’t touch him, was just helpin’ ta get rid of the body, but that nice lady was innocent, and I don’t want her in trouble fer somethin’ she didn’t do.”

The cop nodded in understanding. “Ed Peletier was quite well known to be an abuser, violent and just all out a bad person. His wife wouldn’t press charges, though, so we couldn’t do anything. So, just to clarify, the body wrapped in that blanket is Ed Peletier?” If there was one thing Rick hated about their justice system, it was how domestic violence was handled. His father had hated it as well.

A hint of a growl entered Daryl’s voice at the explanation as he spoke, that touch of anger at a memory. “Just like my daddy, hmm? No wonder I’s so pissed. If Ed Peletier was the man who hit that nice grey haired lady and her daughter, then yes, he was the one in the blanket.”

“Unfortunately. There are a lot of men like your daddy and Ed Peletier out there.” Rick shut the laptop and closed the file. “Daryl Dixon, you’re under arrest for the murder of Ed Peletier.” He stood up and grabbed his cuffs from the back of his belt. “Stand up and face the wall.”

Biting off another growl, Daryl rose to his feet and did as he was told, keeping his arms relaxed, refusing to let this push him into a fight response. Except for his dad, Joe and Ed, he’d never once been violent, and he wasn’t about to start now for someone that was simply doing his job, even if he felt Ed was better off dead. The handcuffs went tight around his wrists and he was led out of the room and down the hall to the cell hall. He was given his own cell and given an orange uniform to change into.

“Would you like us to call you a lawyer or do you have one you want to call?”

“Don’t got one ta call. Whatever ya get’s fine.” Daryl was almost complacent the entire time he’d been under arrest and cuffed. So cooperative it almost made Rick worry.

Rick understood Daryl quite well, almost too well. He’d seen some criminals act like this. It usually meant they had more to hide. He wanted the man to get a fair sentence, however, because he had saved Carol and Sophia, so he walked away and called a lawyer he knew quite well. Michonne was one of the best prosecution lawyers in the city. She was expensive, but she was also fair about discounts and had a good relationship with the precinct. He called her up and she set up an appointment to come see Daryl the first chance she got. Rick thanked her and hung up. The officer went back to Daryl’s cell and looked in on the man.

“Alright, Dixon. I got you a good lawyer. I just need one more thang from you.” Daryl looked up at Rick from the cot he was sitting on in curiosity, a questioning grunt his only response. “I need you to take us to the body so that we can recover it ‘n use it as evidence.”

A flicker of a grimace crossed Daryl’s face for just a fraction of a moment before it was hidden behind long hair as he looked down. “It’s in the forest. In pieces. It’ll help the forest grow more. Wasn’t worth much else, after I…” Daryl suddenly fell silent, refusing to look up.

Rick frowned and raised an eyebrow, putting his hands on his gun belt. “After you what, Dixon?” The man definitely had a lot more to hide.

A growl crept back into Daryl’s voice as he glared up at Rick through his long bangs. “After I killed ‘im, Grimes. Ain’t that enough?” His tone was defiant and suddenly rude, where he’d been nothing but honest before.

The cop merely ‘mmhm’ed in response. “I’ll be back in a minute. You’re gonna take us to the body.” He turned and walked away, soon returning with Tara and another cop with the last name Walsh. He grabbed the keys from his belt and unlocked the cell door. “Face the wall, Dixon.”

With a soft grumble, Daryl got back up and did as instructed, working with the cops. The one named Walsh looked like a mean one with his previously broken nose, and Daryl didn’t want to test the other two. The girl was small, but from his experience, the smaller you were, the scrappier you could be out of necessity. He stood complacently, though his muscles were tensed at the realization that he wasn’t going to get off with just the murder of Ed Peletier once he took them to where the body was buried.

Walsh loaded him up into the back of Rick’s cruiser and Tara got in with Rick. The other cop got into a cruiser next to them. Officer Grimes looked at Daryl in the rear view mirror. “Alright, Dixon, where am I going?” With a heavy sigh, the artist gave directions to his cabin. Rick followed his directions to the cabin and parked in front of it. “Alright, where to from here?”

“‘Round back. There’s a footpath. Just follow it straight inta the forest,” Daryl grumbled in annoyance. His eyes moved to his cabin, catching sight of one of his paintings through the window, the sight almost calming him.

Rick turned the cruiser off and got out. Tara and the other cop got out as well. Walsh walked over and pulled the door open. “C’mon, Dixon.” He helped Daryl out and held onto his arm a little too tightly as they followed Rick up the path with Tara behind them. As they came over a hill, Rick stopped at the top and stared in stunned silence. Walsh stopped with Daryl next to him, Tara nearly bumping into him. “Rick..? What is it, man?” When Rick didn’t answer, he had Tara take hold of Daryl’s arm and walked up next to Officer Grimes. “What’re you-” he went silent as he spotted the landscape littered with fifty or so homemade grave markers. “... What the fuck..?”

A slight smirk sat on Daryl’s face when he spoke up behind them. “You won’t find Mr. Peletier in any of those graves, Officer Grimes.” A low chuckle escaped his lips that sent shivers down the spines of the officers. “Despite how he helped me make another masterpiece, which I will be endlessly thankful for, he didn’t deserve the respect the others got. They had peaceful ends to hard lives.”

Rick and Shane both turned to the artist. “Masterpiece..?” They parroted each other, both of them confused and somewhat disturbed at Daryl’s amusement and pride.

Tara didn’t know what was going on, so she let go of Daryl and hurried up the hill to see what they saw. She felt ill at the sight of the graves. She turned back to him. “... That skull tattoo on your hand- are you Skull..? That famous artist that does blood paintings?”

“Blood paintings? What the fuck are you talkin’ about, Chambler?” Shane growled. He marched up to Daryl and gave him a shove on his chest. “What the fuck did you do to these people?”

Daryl let out a snarl at the name, leaning in toward Tara before being pushed back by Shane. “It’s a fuckin’ stupid name! I don’t call m’self that! The skull symbolizes more than just what it is! An’ most of those people I gave a last night of comfort and warmth and food. More’n they got in their lives!”

Walsh shoved him again, getting up in the artist’s face. “You killed them for their blood, you psycho! Just because they’re homeless doesn’t give you any right to kill them!”

“Walsh, back off.” Rick stepped forward, nudging Walsh away. “Go call the chief and tell him what we found. We’re gonna need help exhuming all these bodies.” Walsh huffed and walked away, pulling out his phone. “Tara, take this one back to the precinct and get him in his cell.”

Tara nodded and took a more gentle hold of Daryl’s arm and started leading him away. All they heard as he followed her docily, was his soft mutterings in response to Shane’s last accusation. “Weren’t right, know that, had ta. Had ta.” Tara glanced at him, but didn’t say anything. She silently put him in the cruiser and got into the driver’s seat.

It took five hours to exhume all the bodies. They found the bodies of Will Dixon, Ed Peletier and Joe Kober who’d gone missing twelve years ago. The more bodies they found the more Rick grew nauseous. Not only had they gotten Ed Peletier’s killer, they had found the serial killer that had been kidnapping homeless people. It was a case his father had been working on for three years before he retired and turned the case over to his son. The case haunted his father to his death, and had been haunting Rick. He’d finally caught the bastard. Now his father could rest peacefully.

It was a fairly open and shut case. Michonne came in to talk to Daryl and started her own file of his case. The press came to the precinct to talk to Rick, but he refused to give them too many details about the fifty bodies they’d found in the forest. They also tried to keep quiet about who Daryl was, after his inadvertent admission of being ‘Skull’ to Tara. They at least respected his wishes that much.

But the case did go to trial, though it was kept as private as possible. While it was an open and shut case, and it was clear that Daryl had done a lot of bad, Michonne still took the case and did what she could to help the man. And after talking to him about the murders, it quickly became clear that she could at least keep him from going to jail. Daryl had seemingly gone into a downward spiral since his murders were discovered. The trial went smoothly, overall, showing the evidence of the death of Ed Peletier, with Tara and Shane and Rick all speaking up for what had been found in the forest when Daryl had led them to Ed’s body. The admission of what he had done.

Glenn had been called up as a character witness, explaining that he’d never thought anything was wrong with Daryl, just that he was sad and alone a lot, and that he’d saved his wife once and had been nothing more than a friend. Questions to Rick had delved into Daryl’s past, using ranting journal notes and cases his father had covered about the Dixon family to reveal how bad a childhood Daryl had truly had. And it was Daryl himself that really pushed the Judge into the decision Michonne was aiming for.

“Mr. Dixon, can you tell me why you killed so many people?” Michonne asked smoothly, standing calmly before the court as she questioned her client.

Daryl sat nervously in the witness stand, biting harshly on his thumbnail and flicking the long bangs from his eyes with an anxious jerk of his head. “Needed ta. Had ta. Needed the blood.”

“And why did you need the blood?”

A quiet, low sound escaped the man, sounding almost like a whine as he looked up at the judge from the corner of his eye. “Ta paint. Ta keep everyone safe. The others died when I didn’t use the blood.”

“And Officer Chambler and Officer Grimes said you stated that you knew killing them was wrong?”

“I-I know it weren’t right. But I had ta. I tried ta be good ta them. Give them a good end. Fed them, got them warm. Put them ta sleep before I drained them. Gave them graves and paid my respects. But I had ta. Needed the blood. Needed it.” The artist seemed to keep looping around in mutters of ‘had ta’ and ‘needed ta’.

Michonne turned to the Judge. “Your Honor, we’ve heard from Officer Grimes about Mr. Dixon’s past. A childhood in which he was abused and felt abandoned by those in his family he cared about. A lonely existence that has only continued until today. We’ve heard his own testimony that he knows what he did wasn’t right, but that something drove him to paint with the victims’ blood. I would like to request that Mr. Dixon be given the help he clearly needs, and be determined as insane, rather than sent to a prison.”

The Judge took a recess to consider, and in the end, Michonne had won her verdict. Daryl Dixon was proclaimed to be insane, and would get the care and rehabilitation he needed at the Hilltop Sanitarium and Asylum. Daryl found himself staying in the jail cell for a further three days, before being transported to his new home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, once again, Daryl’s picture is one by Vincent Castiglia, called Lament. We like the feel of the man’s art, and think it goes well for Daryl’s emotional state in this story. Joe doesn’t have a last name in the series as far as we could find, so we used the last name of his actor. 
> 
> As always, please leave us comments and kudos! We love hearing feedback about what you liked and even what you didn’t! It only helps us to improve!


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re so sorry about the long delay! This chapter focuses on Paul and his life. We’ll get back to Daryl soon though, and see the two interacting! Hope you enjoy!

It was a rainy night in April when Paul Rovia’s mother and father died. He’d only been 4 years old at the time. They’d been going out to dinner for their anniversary, leaving their only child with a babysitter, and their car ran off the road and into a ditch. The engine caught fire and exploded with the Rovias in the car unconscious. He’d been in bed asleep while the babysitter waited for the child’s parents to return. Instead, two police officers had showed up. Both the parents had been single children, and both maternal and paternal grandparents were dead. There was no extended family.

So, he wound up in the system.

The state sold his parent’s house and everything inside it except for the few things the babysitter had put together for him. His own toys and clothes came with him to the local orphanage, but everything else was sold and put into the trust fund his parents had set up for him at the bank. The babysitter also went through the house and pointed out things she knew would become important to the child later in life. Items such as the pictures of his family, some of his mother’s jewelry, his father’s military uniform and awards, the state put into a small storage unit for him. She’d been practically apart of their family since Paul was born and his mother returned to work.

If she’d been over 18, she would’ve gladly taken guardianship of him; but at 15 it was out of the question. She came to visit him at the orphanage during the first couple of years he was living there. Paul had so many questions he wanted answers to and he still didn’t understand that his parents were dead and he would never go home again. It became too much for her, so she told him goodbye one last time and never returned. Without a consistent familiar friend, Paul became withdrawn. Forced to share his toys and clothes with the other kids, he kept to himself. He tended to get into fights with the other boys and had bandaids on his cheeks and knees on a daily basis.

It was near his 8th birthday when an older man with short hair that was dyed black and wearing a formal suit walked into the orphanage. He looked around the messy house in somewhat disgust, watching young kids run around and screaming from the backyard. The mistress of the orphanage walked up to him and they exchanged greetings before she led him into her office. Paul had been sitting alone in the living room, watching them closely. They were in her office for a little over an hour before they came back out. The mistress gathered kids around his age, including himself and had them line up for the man to look over.

Surprisingly, the man chose him. Paul’s clothes were dirty and worn, he had a bandaid over his right eyebrow and on his left knee. His hair was dirty since he refused to bathe some days. He eyed the man suspiciously when he knelt down to him. “What do you want?”

“My name is Gregory.” The man smiled, though Paul could tell it was fake. “I’m here to adopt you. Do you want to come home with me?”

“... Are you gonna molest me?” Narrowing his blue eyes at the man, he stepped back a bit. The mistress smacked the back of his head and ordered him to apologize. He glared down at the floor at his shoes that had holes in the sides. “... ‘m sorry…” He mumbled out.

Gregory merely laughed and reached to rub Paul’s head. “No, I’m not going to molest you. I’m just a lonely thirty two-year-old man with no family. I think we can be a family, can’t we, Paul?”

Paul glanced up at the mistress and she glared at him. He huffed and looked back down, tiny hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Yes, sir.”

The mistress smiled happily and told the rest of the kids to disperse. “Good! Paul, this is a happy day! Go pack your things and we’ll get your new father to sign the paperwork to release you!” With a hand, she nudged Paul turned the staircase.

The child grumbled but did as he was told. What the hell was he supposed to grab? Everything that had been his at one point belonged to other kids now. He went into the room he shared with five other boys and stood by his bed. Kneeling down, he reached between the mattress and bed springs and pulled out his favorite toy and the ball cap he’d refused to give up when he first got to this horrible place. He didn’t care too much to grab anything else, so he went downstairs and stood by the door until Gregory walked up to him.

He never looked back.

Life with Gregory was… interesting. The man didn’t care for Paul at all, which was pretty obvious from the very beginning. It was a few months into his life with his adopted father that he found out that he’d only been adopted as an attempt to look good in his climb up the ladder of his career. He barely saw the man. Instead, Gregory had hired a nanny that essentially raised the orphan from then on, a woman by the name of Tammy Rose, who he adored. She was the one who would play with him, teach him things normal children did, and encouraged his love of art, taking him to multiple museums and galleries.

Still, over the years, the older Paul became, the more of Gregory he saw. He had been sent to the most prestigious of schools, and as Paul was an intelligent child, Gregory would drag his adopted son to numerous work-related banquets, showing him off and bragging about how well he did in school. When Paul was 12, he found a website with an anonymous artist that sold paintings, and Paul was entranced. The landscapes were desolate and surreal, and the emotion he could feel in them spoke to him. There weren’t many of them, but they were all so beautiful. He could stare at them all day. He had to have them.

He went to Gregory, asking for money to buy them. The older man didn’t seem to understand why Paul wanted the paintings but ultimately didn’t care. He finally shrugged, handing Paul a credit card, saying, “It’s your money. Just don’t spend it all. You’re allowed six hundred a month.”

Paul gladly took the card and quickly left Gregory’s office, shouting a ‘thanks, man!’ over his shoulder. He shut the door and raced back up to his bedroom, skidding to a stop on the shiny hardwood floor with his socks. Opening the door, he grinned and hurried up to his desk, hoping the auction wasn’t closed. Only one other person had bid on it, only putting up $50, so Paul bid up to $65. They went back and forth until the painting was up to $90 and the other person gave up.

“Yes!” The pre-teen fist pumped the air and quickly entered his card number and security code. It was the first thing he’d ever bought for himself that was a true necessity. The seller of the painting sent him a message, thanking him for buying the painting and that he would send it off the next morning. Paul smiled and saved the website to his favorites so he could check it out every few days.

It was less than a week later that a package arrived for him. He had come home from school and eaten a snack of a ham and cheese sandwich that Tammy Rose had made for him, before she mentioned that the mail had come, and she had taken a package for him to his room. Paul hopped up excitedly, hugging her briefly for letting him know before he raced up the stairs to his room. The package was laying on his bed, wide and flat, wrapped in brown paper. Quickly, the pre-teen tore open the paper and pried open the box, carefully sliding the painting out. He sat on his bed with the [landscape](https://i.etsystatic.com/13847685/r/il/13ad41/1245034302/il_794xN.1245034302_2mgj.jpg) in his lap, staring at it, fingers tracing over the trees and shadows, a wide smile on his face.

He looked around his bedroom. The walls were bare except for a couple framed pictures of his parents above his desk. He grinned. He would need to grab some nails and a hammer to hang the painting. This one would go above his bed. He hoped the artist painted more soon so he could fill the rest of his bedroom walls with them. He left his room, leaving the painting safely on his bed, and went down into the basement. It didn’t take the pre-teen too long to find a hammer and a couple of nails. He passed Tammy Rose on the way back up to his room. The painting already had a cord on the back of it, so he used just one nail after taking a quick moment to measure how high up and where the middle would be.

Curious as to why Paul was so excited and running around, Tammy Rose followed the child back up the stairs with a smile. “Paul? What’s going on? Did you get good news?” She paused in the doorway as she saw him hammering a nail into the wall.

Paul was standing on his bed, arms stretched above his head to hang the painting. He looked over his shoulder at her and grinned. “I’m decorating my room! Well, kind of. I bought this painting last week.” When he seemed the painting safely hooked on the nail he stepped back, then let himself fall back on the soft mattress and stared up at it. “It’s so beautiful.”

Tammy eyed the painting with a slight frown. It was well done, but so dark. The trees in some places were bare and dead, and the lone path seemed almost desolate. “It’s… very dark, Paul. Are you sure that’s what you want?” she asked carefully.

Paul smiled. “Yes! It’s perfect! I can’t wait until the artist does more! I wanna buy all of them!” He sat up and looked at her, frowning a bit. “You don’t like it?”

The nanny settled carefully next to her charge on the bed. “It’s very well done, Paul. The artist certainly has some skill. I’m not sure it’s something suited to my tastes, though. Wouldn’t it be nicer with some more color? Some light?” She studied him, glancing at the painting from time to time. Something that dark bringing so much joy to the boy worried her.

Paul looked up at the painting, tilting his head a bit and trying to imagine more light and color to it. He made a face and shook his head. “No. I like it like this.” He smiled again. “Feels… calming.”

Knowing she wasn’t going to change his mind, Tammy simply nodded. “Alright, Paul. After all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” She would keep an eye on him, just in case. “I’m glad you’re making your room more like it’s your own,” she added with a smile. “Soon enough, you’ll feel at home, rather than just living with Gregory.” Reaching out, she ran gentle fingers through his hair before smiling and rising to her feet. “Anyway, you have homework to do, so best get to it.”

Paul pouted a bit. He wanted to lay in bed and stare at the painting, but he supposed it wasn’t going anywhere. So, with a nod, he got out of bed and went over to his desk and sat down. He opened his computer and pulled up the assignment to start working on it.

Seeing him get to work, Tammy smiled once more before leaving the room. A frown crossed her lips as she walked down the stairs, wondering where he had found that painting. She knew he’d had a hard childhood, but it still worried her. But so long as he didn’t act any differently, perhaps it wasn’t a problem?

As soon as Tammy Rose was out of the room, he looked over at the painting above his bed. He sighed a bit and stared at it for some time, occasionally going back to his homework, only to look back over at the painting.

 

Two months passed before he found another painting, but it came on the most needed day. He’d come home from school with a black eye and split lip, glowering at the floor as Tammy Rose fussed over him, doing what she could to help reduce the swelling and wipe away the blood. “Paul! What happened? Did you get into a fight? You know Gregory won’t be happy about that!”

Paul winced a bit when she put the alcohol wipe to his split lip. “Rogers was picking on a younger kid again. I was just protecting him. He’s small and weak and can’t protect himself. No one else was trying to stop Rogers. All I did was tell Rogers to walk away and he punched me.”

Tammy frowned, dabbing a little bit of ointment on the cut and getting him an ice bag for his eye. “Well, it’s commendable that you tried to help him. Did you tell the teachers what happened?”

The pre-teen nodded. “Yeah. But since Rogers parents donate so much money to the damn school, they just told me to leave him alone.” He grumbled more, swearing under his breath.

“Watch your tongue, young man!” Tammy scolded, hearing the swearing. “It’s neither good mannered, nor Christian.” She threw away the remains of what she had used to take care of Paul before sighing. “I’ll talk to Gregory, see if he can talk to the school at all.”

Paul grinned a little bit and chuckled to himself. “But… Tammy… I am Christian. The younger kids call me Jesus. I heard them whispering it as I was walking through the halls after school.”

The nanny’s frown deepened even further. “What? Why are they calling you that?”

Paul shrugged. “Probably because I protect them from the bigger, meaner kids all the time. I even got one of the worst bullies to change. He’s a really nice kid now.”

Tammy sat into a chair with a sigh, and looked at Paul with a serious expression. “Paul, that’s blasphemous. I hope you never take that name to heart or start thinking of yourself like that. You hear me? Now, go upstairs and get your homework done. I’m going to talk to Gregory about the school’s teachers. Do you want something to eat before you head up?”

Paul blinked at her a bit hurt. He’d thought she’d be proud of him for protecting the younger kids and building up a reputation for himself at school He shook his head and turned, leaving the room. Slinking upstairs, he mumbled to himself and went to his computer once he was in his room. He sighed, pulling up a few of his favorite tabs to look over after school. He opened up the art website.

There was a new [painting](https://oenogallery.com/assets/Artists/peter-hoffer/_resampled/SetRatioSize1200600-untitled-dark-forest-1.jpg) posted up on the website, another landscape of a forest, this one overgrown. The auction was underway, with only twenty minutes left to go, and the painting had already been bid on a few times, up to $125 already. As usual, there was no name attributed to the painting, nothing written in the description other than a simple note that the painting would be shipped out in the mail the next morning once the auction was over.

Paul felt a few tears slide down his cheeks. This painting truly spoke to him about how he was feeling at the moment. He quickly pulled out his wallet and opened it, taking the credit card out. He put a bid of $150 on it. With nearly four hundred still left on the card, he could go as high as he needed.

The auction pushed a little further, but it seemed that Paul had come in around where most had decided their limit was. The total pushed up to $185, before it stopped, with Paul having the winning bid. Once again, the website asked for his credit card number and address to be entered, though this time he saw a new option to log in so his information could be saved. He just had to come up with a username and password.

Paul smiled, glad to finally be able to have a username and password on this site. He clicked the button to enter his information. Once he got to the username box, he took pause to come up with a username. He thought about everything that happened that day and what Tammy Rose had told him. While he did love her like a mother, he couldn’t help feeling a little petty. So, he typed in Jesus as his username and his parents' wedding day as the password. He saved his credit card numbers into the sight and smiled, leaning back in his chair now that the painting was bought. It would look beautiful over his dresser.

 

By the time Paul reached his 13th birthday, he’d purchased 7 more paintings from the site, all by the same anonymous artist. His walls were filled with paintings of dark forests, misty fields, and abandoned buildings with a single desolate tree. His birthday had been relatively good, with Tammy Rose making his favorite meal, baking him a cake, and gifting him with a small present of a couple books, while Gregory briefly stopped in and gave him with a present of $500 to spend on whatever he wanted. Tammy’s glare at the man for the impersonal and unoriginal gift idea was probably the highlight of his night, having bitten his lip to keep the laughter from slipping out when Gregory saw the glare and started sputtering out defences for himself as he quickly fled the room.

Paul knew exactly what he would spend the money on, and if the painting didn’t cost too much, he would just go out with a couple of his friends and buy himself some new clothes, maybe dye his hair or something. At the end of the night, he kissed Tammy Rose’s cheek as a thank you and hurried up to his room to get on his computer and check if there was anything new on the art site.

When he checked under ‘anonymous1’ which was the name the artist kept all of his work under, there was a notice posted. “Painting will not be sold, but ten prints are being made. Each print will cost $300 and will be shipped out as soon as finished being made. Purchases are first come, first serve. See image of painting in link below.”

Paul blinked a bit. The artist had never done prints before. He wondered what the new painting was. Maybe it was something really gorgeous or something more personal. If it was more personal he could understand the artist wanting to keep the original for himself. He bit his lip, wondering if he should take the risk of going ahead and pre-ordering a print. He decided since it was for his birthday, he went ahead and clicked on the link to pre-order it.

Clicking on the pre-order link brought up all of his information to order it, but also the image of the painting the prints were of. Paul’s breath caught in his throat at the image before him. Done entirely in a sepia tone, a horned figure gently cradled another that looked peacefully asleep, or perhaps dead. Both figures were incomplete, and in some parts looked almost like they were decaying or disintegrating. It was very different than anything the artist had ever done before, but full of emotion. A drop of warmth on the back of his hand startled him, and Paul raised a hand to his face, shocked to discover he was crying.

He reached up to wipe at the tears on his cheeks. The painting was so gorgeous and so emotionally devouring. He could feel just what the artist had felt while painting this and couldn’t help wondering what the person had gone through in their life to paint something so sad and beautiful. He didn’t waste any time clicking the confirmation link to pre-order a print. He had to have it.

The print arrived a week later, in a large manila envelope lined with bubble wrap. It was no bigger than a piece of computer paper, but thick and stiff. Paul had taken it up to his room to open, making sure not to show that anything different was going on or that he knew what the envelope was, because if he did, Tammy would have followed him to see what it was. If she thought the landscapes he kept buying were dark, she’d throw a fit about this picture. Still, he settled on his bed to study it, burn every detail into his mind, and wondered again just how one person could make sure beautiful, emotional images.

He must’ve stared at the painting for almost an hour. Tammy Rose knocked on his door and opened it. He quickly hid the print under one of his pillows and turned to look at her.

“Just checking up on you. How was school?” She smiled at him sweetly.

Paul sat up and shrugged a bit. “Was fine. No homework since it’ll be Christmas break soon.” He bit his bottom lip, debating where to put the print at. He thought of maybe buying a frame for it and putting it on his bedside table so he could look at it every night.

Giving him an odd look as he seemed to drift off into a daydream, Tammy shrugged. He was probably just thinking of what to do with his friends for Christmas break, and what he’d get as presents. “Alright, Paul. Dinner will be ready in about 30 minutes, so make sure you wash up.”  
Paul looked at her after processing what she said and nodded. “Alright. I think I’ll go shower now.” He waited for her to leave, then pulled the print back out to look at it a little longer. He smiled and put it back under his pillow. Going over to his desk, he sat down and pulled up a new tab to look for a good frame for the print. He found the perfect one and ordered it, then went into the adjoining bathroom to shower like he’d told her he would.

 

Graduation for Paul came a bit earlier than it would for most. With his intelligence, OCD tendencies for perfection, and the drive to get out of the school he was in, he found himself far surpassing his other classmates and graduating when he was 16. Tammy Rose was so proud of him, and had baked him a special dinner in his honor. Gregory had pulled him aside to talk with him, asking him if he had given any thought to what he intended to study in college.

Paul bit his bottom lip a bit. He was worried maybe Gregory would want him to study management and take over his office one day, but office work seemed so dull. “I’ve been thinking medicine. The field is constantly changing and would give me constant challenges.”

Gregory looked almost upset at the thought, but quickly brightened. “That’s great then, you can come work at the Asylum when you’re all set. I’m sure you’d do well with the patients, and your help would be most appreciated.” And he could possibly hire Paul for cheap, since he was technically family.

Paul shifted a bit nervously. He hadn’t thought about working in the Asylum with the man. He knew Gregory was probably just looking to save money from hiring a more expensive nurse. “... I’ll think about it as I study.”

Gregory simply nodded with a broad smile, clapping Paul on the shoulder. “I’ll make sure there’s a spot open for you once you’ve reached your decision. I’ve found that working with the insane brings a certain… spontaneity to your life. I think you’d enjoy it immensely. I’m glad we had this talk! Now, work hard on your new studies, and congratulations on your early graduation! I’m proud of you.” He pulled an envelope out of his suit coat’s inner pocket and handed it to Paul. “Just a little something to help you get started,” he said with a wink, before leaving the room.

Paul blinked and took the envelope. He watched Gregory leave, shaking his head a bit. The man always stayed just long enough to make an appearance, give Paul a present, then leave. Not that he really minded much. He’d rather spend time with his few close friends, Tammy Rose and alone than with the man who was supposed to be his father. He sighed and turned the envelope to open it and reached inside, pulling the gift out.

Once again, Gregory’s gift was the simple gift of money. $1000 was a lot though, especially from someone who could be as scrooge-like as Gregory could. And at least Paul could put it toward whatever he wanted, rather than getting a gift he didn’t really like or have a use for. Pocketing the money, he headed back to the kitchen to eat with Tammy Rose, wondering what she had gotten for him this time. Usually, she stuck to books, but this time the present was a bit bigger than what she’d usually have for him.

Paul smiled at her as she walked in. By now, most of his friends had left having enjoyed her food and the cake. He hugged her when she congratulated him again and he kissed her check, whispering how grateful he was to her in her eye. She sat him down and cut him a slice of the cake he hadn’t had yet since he’d been busy mingling with his friends. He dug into it happily, grinning a bit when he saw how ansty she was to give him her gift. He chuckled. “Let me have it.”

With a broad grin, she pushed the large package toward him, watching as he unwrapped it. A laundry basket was the container, and inside were a variety of basic things needed in every home -- laundry detergent, dish soap, basic dry ingredients, toilet paper -- as well as a card. Inside the card was an address with an additional number ‘3C’. “I talked with Gregory, and went to the college. I picked out an apartment for you, and he paid for it. So… this is your starter kit for living on your own,” she said with tears in her eyes. She was so proud of him, and so sad to see him leave at the same time, but knew he’d be ecstatic at the idea. “Just make sure you call and visit me from time to time, alright? I’ll miss you so much!”

Paul looked over it all with a bit of shock. He’d been planning on going apartment hunting this weekend, but now he didn’t have to. He grinned. Now, he could use the weekend to go shopping for a few items. “Tammy! This is amazing!” He stood up and hugged onto her tightly, kissing her cheek several times. “Thank you so much! This means so much to me! And of course, I’ll come every weekend so I don’t starve myself.” He chuckled.

The nanny let out a teary laugh and hugged the boy back just as tightly. “Eventually you’ll get too busy for that, but at least try to call me once in a while. If you like, I can go shopping with you tomorrow, help you figure out some other things you’ll need. It’s always the little things people forget, so that’s why I got you this basket, but I know there’s other things you’ll need too.”

Paul sighed softly in relief. “That would be amazing. Thank you so much.” He hugged her tighter before letting go. “I’m gonna want another slice of cake.” He grinned and sat back down, finishing off the first slice as she cut him another slice.

 

His apartment was bigger than he’d thought it would be. Tammy Rose had made sure he had everything he might need and then some when she’d picked it out. A full kitchen and living room and a small place to put a dining room table, one and a half bathrooms and three bedrooms, though she had given him strict orders that one room was to be turned into a study for him to get his work done. With so much space, the first thing he’d done was choose where all of his paintings and prints would go before unpacking his laptop and hooking it up. He had so much space to work with now, when he’d had to be sparing in what he purchased before because he was running out of room in his bedroom. It made him itch to see if there were any new paintings or prints he could purchase.

He’d spent the next two days hanging his paintings, getting the furniture he’d ordered arranged and unpacking his clothes and hanging them in his large closet. He’d ordered a nice desk to put his computer on for doing his homework and the free room he thought of maybe turning into a workout space. By the end of the second day, his apartment was complete. Paul stood in his living room, smiling and looking around. He couldn’t help feeling a bit lonely, however, knowing he wouldn’t have Tammy Rose coming in to check on him every few hours, offering him snacks and drinks.

With that thought in mind, he went to his computer, checking a few of his favorite sites as well as the art website. He’d hoped that maybe a new painting would distract him from his loneliness a bit, but he was disappointed to see there were no updates, though his artist was no longer listed as simply ‘anonymous’ but had a brief sketch of a cartoonish skull where the name should be. Scrolling through to look at the previous sales, some of which he had been unable to win, he was about to log out of the site when a new message popped up. Another set of prints was ordered and would be ready for purchase within a week. $400 per print, and pre-ordering was an option again. There was no option to buy the original painting, however, and that was something that hadn’t happened since the painting that had made Paul cry.

Paul blinked and clicked on the link to go to the pre-ordering page. The painting popped up and he stared at it for a while, feeling the overwhelming emotions again. This one had a woman in a wheelchair holding a baby, parts of skin missing showing bone. Her hair was thick and framing her face as she stared down at the babe. Paul could feel the innocence in the painting, as well as the feeling of being trapped. It’d been what he felt living in the orphanage and with Gregory. Living alone now, although he felt lonely, he felt free.

Tears slipped down his cheeks once more, and this time he didn’t wipe them away as he immediately placed an order for one of the prints. He needed this image, the emotions he felt so clearly reminding him how free he was now. And, he realized as he looked around at the other print in sepia tone, he had time now, and space, to fill his apartment with these images that calmed him and made him feel so alive at the same time. He smiled, silently thanking the artist for painting what he did.

 

College life seemed to fly by. Paul’s classes were busy and in some cases brutal with the amount of homework and research he had to do. But among his classes he had made friends and met his current boyfriend. Alex was in the medical field to become a nurse, which was where Paul had met him. They’d dated for a year, not long after Paul had turned 21, and now Alex was living with him, using the second bedroom that he’d never actually converted into anything as his own, though they spent more time in one bed than in separate.

Paul hadn’t decorated the extra bedroom with any of his paintings, which seemed to be the reason Alex wanted that bedroom. He hadn’t really cared. The only thing he used the extra room for was to work out when he had any free time. For Spring break, Alex wanted to go to Florida, but Paul didn’t really want to travel. They argued for an hour about it until Paul said he would think about it and went to his office to cool off. He settled at his desk. Truth be told, he could afford it. He’d barely dipped into the savings his parents had left for him and Gregory was still paying for the apartment, though Paul knew it was all a scheme to get Paul to work for him. After checking his bank account, he decided to check out The Skull’s art site to see if they had anything new up.

The Skull’s work had changed since Paul had gotten the apartment. It used to be there were landscapes and general inanimate portraits in dark tones and shadows, and once in a while, the Skull would post one of the sepia-toned prints. But after that, something had changed in the artist’s life, and almost all that was produced was the sepia toned paintings. Some could be purchased as the original, but with his name and work being sold in tandem by a famous New York art gallery, it was harder to get the originals. Prints would suffice, but Paul really wanted one of the originals. The sepia-toned work was so emotional and visceral, even in a smaller print the pain and joy bled through. He could only imagine how powerful an original would be.

A smile spread across the future nurse’s face as he saw the newest listed work, with an auction about to start soon. The image was powerful, a woman holding out an organ, a gaping hole where her womb was, as she looked down almost demurely. She was trapped, her legs stuck in the cracking ground as she reached out with her offering. And it was an original painting for the auction.

He zoned in on the computer, eyes glued to the clock counting down the minutes before the auction would start. The painting was listed at $200 to start, but as soon as the timer reached zero other people began bidding on it. The price jumped up to nearly $450 before Paul finally won it. He grinned happily, already debating on a space for the painting to go. Since it was an original he would be getting, it would have to be somewhere safe away from water and heat. Maybe in his bedroom next to the prints which he’d hung up all in a line.

The painting arrived less than a week later, when Alex called him from his studies for exams to get the package that had arrived for him. Alex looked at him with dread when he left his study. “This is another one of those creepy paintings, isn’t it?”

Paul eagerly went over to it, smiling so excitedly. “They’re not creepy, they’re art.” He carefully set the package across the dining room table and opened it. He moved the protective plastic aside and held his breath as he looked over the [sepia-toned piece](http://vincentcastiglia.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/09/Exile1.jpg). “Oh my God… it’s so much more beautiful in person.”

Alex took one look at it and turned green. “What the hell, Paul? This is morbid! I don’t understand why you’re so into this nutjob’s art! It’s creepy and disgusting, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the person who painted these was a serial killer!”

Paul blinked and looked at him. “... I don’t comment on your taste of music, do I? Even though it’s bland and makes no sense, but I still listen to it with you.” He glared a bit. “Besides, this is my apartment, I can decorate it how I want.”

Reeling back in surprise at Paul’s comments, Alex scrambled to recover. Paul rarely pushed back like that, and usually went along with most of what Alex suggested. “But Paul, I live here too! You could at least be considerate of my feelings of these things! If I saw this in the middle of the night, I’d die of fright!”

“Quit being such a drama queen, Alex. You’re a medical major, you know it’s physically impossible to die of fright.” Paul turned back to the painting, lightly running his fingers along the edge of the canvas. “And maybe you should also be considerate of my feelings, Alex. You’ve never once done something that I wanted.”

Crossing his arms across his chest with a huff, Alex backed down in a sulk. “So where are you putting it, then?” he grumped, put out that he hadn’t convinced Paul to get rid of it.

“In my room next to the line of prints. This is an original piece, so it needs to be somewhere safe.” He carefully picked it up and walked into the bedroom. “Would you bring me a hammer and nail?”

Alex grumbled a few choice words under his breath, but went to fetch the tools requested. Once he’d handed them over, he looked at the space that Paul was intending to hang the large painting. “We are not having sex in your room anymore. I won’t be able to do anything with that thing staring at me.”

Paul shrugged a bit. “Plenty of other rooms to have sex in.” He smirked a bit, gently hammering the nail into the wall, then hanging the canvas by the wire in the back. He stepped back, humming a bit in happiness.

“I understand that there’s a whole type of people that think these paintings are ‘cool’ and ‘deep’ but I never thought you’d be this into them,” Alex spat before letting out a disgusted scoff once more, stalking out of the room and into his own, slamming the door behind him.

Paul watched him go, but couldn’t bring himself to care. He shrugged a bit and looked back at the canvas, sighing softly. They weren’t ‘cool’ and ‘deep’ to him. They were emotional, sad and something so very entrancing. He could stare at them forever and never feel alone. It was truly almost like The Skull was there with him.

 

When he was 24, Paul had started working at the Hilltop Asylum, accepting the job his adoptive father had open for him. His superiors quickly realized that Paul was highly intelligent, good at his job, and worked well with the patients. Because of this, and his connection to Gregory, he was given a bit more freedom than most of the medical staff that worked there. Paul wound up making friends with some of the patients, learning what they liked and didn’t, getting to know them to help them through tough days and bad episodes. He’d been working there a year and was in his own office opening his mail he’d brought in with him when Gregory sauntered in and sat on the edge of the desk.

“Be prepared, my boy! We have quite the celebrity coming into our walls in just a couple days!” Gregory bragged with a grin. He puffed out his own chest, like he was the cause for the decision to get someone famous.

Paul looked up at him, a bit of an eyebrow raised. “And who would that be, Gregory?” He looked back down at his mail, opening the envelope with the print. He pulled it out and smiled as he gazed upon it. This one he would frame and leave on his desk.

“Well, I don’t actually know, but you should appreciate it. He’s some kind of an artist, apparently somewhat famous. He went to trial just a couple days ago, and apparently, he’s killed nearly 100 people! Serial killer! Can you imagine that? Cut people open and used their blood to paint with!” Gregory scoffed. “If that isn’t insane, I don’t know what is.”

Paul blinked. Blood painting? He looked at the print in his hands. It couldn’t be. He bit his bottom lip and slid the print back into the envelope. “When will he be here?”

“He’ll be admitted in just a couple hours. They’re driving him here as we speak.” Gregory winked at him. “I knew you’d be interested! Apparently, his name is Daryl Dixon. I’ll have his file sent to you so you can look it over before you meet him. Make sure to treat this one carefully, my boy!” rising to his feet, Gregory brushed himself off as if he’d gotten dirty before heading out the door, tossing a wave over his shoulder as he left.

Paul looked back down at the print in his hand. It was another powerful piece, probably the best done yet. A man kneeling in despair, his face hidden in one hand to the side of the print, the flesh missing from his other hand and feet, the top of his head starting to crumble and disintegrate as he wept. And yet… it was a print of a blood painting. A couple years ago, someone had purchased one of The Skull’s original paintings and scratched a tiny bit of the paint off to see what it was. And the tests said that it was 100% human blood. The purchaser had told the news, and the story had spread like wildfire. Alex had been pissed that Paul had two blood paintings in his room, and it had caused another fight between them, but no one had ever given it another thought. There were a number of artists that used their own blood for painting, and so other than it being another point in the ‘macabre’ column for most people, it only increased The Skull’s sales and fame.

He sighed softly and put the print down when his computer beeped with a new email. He turned to his computer and pulled up Daryl’s file so he could look over it and get an idea what kind of treatment he would need. After spending thirty minutes going over the file, he got up and pulled his scrub coat on and made sure he had his badge and keys. He left his office and went down to the ambulance bay to greet their new patient.

He was there when Daryl was carefully pulled from the back of the police cruiser, hands cuffed behind him. The man’s brown hair was long, falling into his face, and all Paul could see was a faintly greying scruff on his chin and intense blue eyes peeking out from behind the long strands of hair. Daryl was tall and muscled, but followed orders in an almost docile manner, occasionally muttering a few words, “had ta… needed ta,” as if they were a prayer or talisman against what was happening to him. When they finally released the cuffs from his wrists, the killer raised his hands up to rub at his wrists, and that’s when Paul saw it. A familiar drawing, used as a signature on Paul’s favorite art, tattooed on the back of his right hand. Daryl Dixon was The Skull.

Paul inhaled sharply, eyes stuck to the tattoo. It took the head nurse calling his name twice to get him to look at her. “I-I’m sorry, what?”

“Get him to his room and get his vitals. We need to get him admitted to the hospital.” She gave him a bit of a concerned look. “Are you alright?”

“Yes! I’m fine.” Paul smiled at her and moved forward to gently take a hold of Daryl’s elbow. “Right this way, Mr. Dixon. Let’s get you to your room and comfortable.”

Daryl flinched at the touch before following as ordered, not even looking up. He followed silently through the halls, the quiet only broken by the occasional muttering. When Paul opened the door to his room, the artist entered without question, sitting on the bed and pulling his knees up, wrapping his arms around them.

Paul stepped out for just a moment to bring in a vitals machine. He brought it over to Daryl’s bed. “Alright, I’m just going to need your temperature and blood pressure, okay?” He gently wrapped the cuff around Daryl’s bicep, biting his bottom lip at how muscular the man was. He hit start on the machine and then grabbed the thermometer and held it to Daryl’s lips. “Under the tongue, please?” He said it as more of a question to give Daryl the option of saying no.

The larger man simply opened his mouth, lifting his tongue so Paul could place the thermometer inside before closing his lips around it. His eyes never moved from the floor, seemingly not caring what Paul did to him. It was almost as if he wasn’t aware of reality, even as he followed where it took him.

Paul smiled, murmuring a soft thank you. The machine beeped and Paul took the thermometer back and threw the cover away. He entered the vitals into a small iPad he produced from his scrub pocket. He glanced up at Daryl. “... I really love your work, Skull. Lament is my favorite right now.”

Daryl’s frame froze for a moment before uncurling from the ball he’d sat in. His head lifted from gazing at the floor and he met Paul’s gaze with angrily glaring blue eyes. He slowly rose to his feet, extending one arm to point firmly at the door. “I HATE that damn name,” he snarled, his southern accent thick with his anger. “Get. Out.”

Paul blinked. He smirked a bit. “So, you can say something else.” He put the iPad back in his pocket. “Alright. I’m sorry. I won’t call you that again. My name is Paul Rovia, or… as you probably know me… Jesus.”

Blue eyes blinked once in surprise, then again before Daryl’s muscular frame folded back in on itself as he settled back onto the bed. His gaze lowered to the floor again, though his head tilted slightly as if thinking, considering. Finally, after a long moment, he spoke. “Well, now ya just have somethin’ else ta tell ya friends all ‘bout yer ‘wicked cool’ paintin’s ya got.” He laid down on the bed and rolled to face the wall, turning his back to Paul. “Jus’ go ‘way,” he said in a tired, despondent tone. “‘M tired.” He curled into a ball again, letting out a long sigh, falling silent once more, the muttering returning.

Paul stared at him for a moment. He turned and walked over to the door. “... Feeding… it really called out to me when I first saw it. I could feel how trapped and innocent the woman in the painting felt. It really made me realize just how trapped I’d been all my life… how trapped I still feel sometimes.” He turned to Daryl, hands in the pockets of his scrub jacket. “They’re not just ‘cool’ or ‘wicked’ to me. They’re emotional… entrancing… and so much more than just a canvas.”

The line of Daryl’s back tensed as he listened to Paul, the mutterings falling silent. A slight twitch as his breath hitched, before the artist curled into a ball. He didn’t say a word in response, but curled quietly, listening.

“I’m just sad that you’re stuck in here now… because now you won’t be able to paint such beautiful art pieces.” He turned and opened the door, bringing the vitals machine with him. “Just hit the button on the wall if you need anything.” He left the room, shutting the door.

In the quiet room, the noise muffled by the closed door, came quiet sobs as the artist broke down in solitude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first landscape Paul purchases is by Evan Alderton. You can find that particular work, “Dark forest painting” on Etsy. The second landscape is Untitled (Dark forest) by Peter Hoffer. You can find more of his work at oenogallery.com. The blood painting (because we all know that’s what it really is) is called Exile, by Vincent Castiglia.
> 
> Please leave a comment or a kudos! We understand this is a darker story, but would still love to hear what everyone thinks!


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